


waitin' on the love of a travelin' sailor

by stephbethallen



Series: lights and sirens [5]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medical, Alternate Universe - Navy, Blood and Injury, Coincidences, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epistolary, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Real Events, JMSDF Hospital Corpsman Iwaizumi Hajime, Letters, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oikawa Tooru's Knee Injury, Original Character(s), Pirates, Pro Volleyball Player Oikawa Tooru, Sharpshooter Iwaizumi Hajime, but like...modern day pirates. think captain phillips, but they are relevant i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29033244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephbethallen/pseuds/stephbethallen
Summary: petty officer third class iwaizumi hajime is not a pirate killer, despite what his wife says in her letters—except wife is a very loose term, and iwaizumi isn't quite sure what he does nowadays.or: iwaizumi transitions from active duty sailor to reservist medic one letter at a time, feat. cognac, viaje a las estrellas, a complete and total lack of eggs, and too much, yet not enough, of oikawa to go around.
Relationships: (Minor), Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi
Series: lights and sirens [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028268
Comments: 82
Kudos: 88





	1. would you mind if i sent one back here to you?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lineal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lineal/gifts).



> WHOO BOY. OKAY HERE WE GO
> 
> first of all, i'd like to say that all of my works that have some sort of sliver of realism are based off 3 components in various balances: fact, SWAGs (scientifically wild-ass guesses), and WAGs (wild-ass guesses). this fic contained a whole lot more SWAGs and WAGs than i usually like. for that reason, i'd also like to say this is not in ANY way a political statement. this is a work of fiction. 
> 
> despite my research, i am not well-versed in the inner workings of the JSDF or its branches. many elements of this fic are based on the american navy instead if i couldn't find the information i needed. but, this fic was inspired in part by [this paper](https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/230764969.pdf), and by whatever info i could scrounge up on the JSDF's involvement in the Gulf of Aden with Operation Ocean Shield. 
> 
> also content warnings: there are guns here—lots of them—sometimes painted in a positive light, sometimes not. but this is _not_ intended, in any way, to be glorification of gun violence. again, not a political statement fic, i don't have the authority to do that. there's also some alcohol (none actually abused) and some reference to puking in this chapter only.
> 
> the work title and chapter titles come from the chick's iconic and heartbreaking [Travelin' Soldier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbfgxznPmZM&feature=share&fbclid=IwAR1lM7gyUn30iTNNX8sfcXeAAxeW9zQcSWLOWVCdmuUuF3CUW1vplAtMD1A)
> 
> and with that...encouraging introduction, please enjoy.

“Got four for you today, Sailor.” 

Iwaizumi steps forward in the line, receiving his mail from the personnel clerk. One from his mother. One from Hanamaki. One from Kunimi. And, one with a fuck-ton of stamps on it, taped shut from where it was inspected.

They didn’t search the mail, his ass. 

“Thank you, sir,” Iwaizumi says, heading back to his quarters, flipping over the envelopes in his hand. Oikawa’s was the only letter addressed in English— _JMSDF Petty Officer Third Class Hajime Iwaizumi, Hospital Corpsman, JS Onami,_ which is technically not even the correct address. Oikawa only has to put his rank, not his rating, but he gets a kick out of writing it anyways. Hospital Corpsman. If it made Oikawa feel closer to Iwaizumi to be able to comment on his job every time, then how could Iwaizumi deny him that? 

Iwaizumi holes up in his quarters, bringing his knees up to his chest to sit on the bunk and rip open the letter. The others can wait. 

Out falls a thin leaf of legal-pad paper and a picture—he’s in his press conference suit, smiling and waving at the cameras and holding up his UPCN jersey. _Oikawa_ , the navy vinyl letters say against bright yellow polyester. 

He looks tired. Skinny. Sleep-deprived. Iwaizumi tries not to worry too much as he stashes the photo in his backpack along with all the other photos. He can do the worrying later, after he’s read his mail. 

_Dear beloved,_

_How are your adventures exploring the wide and treacherous seven seas?_ ** _I’m_** _sure you’re able to take care of yourself, yet every day I fear for you—life is toug_ ** _h_** _and pirates are q_ ** _u_** _ite the u_ ** _n_** _for_ ** _g_** _iving people, after all. You’_ ** _r_** _e my strong, loving husband and I love_ ** _y_** _ou (*￣3￣)╭ Stay safe out there. I'll be waiting for your_ ** _return_** _!_ _My favorite pirate killer!_

_(P.S. attached is a picture of your brother-in-law, the nearly-Olympic volleyball player who is so ultra-talented that he got a whole press conference to announce his official position as the starting setter! I know you are so proud of him! He looks so handsome here, don’t you think? This photo will make a nice addition to the collection you have of him!)_

_Love,_

_Your loyal, beautiful wife, Tooru_

...and Iwaizumi shakes his head, somehow always surprised by the excessive bullshit Oikawa would send him. If anyone else saw this, they’d think it was borderline incestuous. He reaches under his bunk, grabs a sheet of paper and a pen, and replies with: 

_Tooru,_

_Things are fine, nothing to report. Why did you just draw a kaomoji in your_ _written_ _letter? I’m actually concerned for your mental health._

_I’m glad to see your brother is first-string now, that’s incredible. Congratulations to him. How is his knee feeling? Don’t let him overwork it. He’s lost weight, probably because he can’t cook for himself. He should learn how to do it—his roommate won’t be back from the Navy for another two months. Tell him to get up off his ass and order takeout. Argentina has food. Don’t let him starve out of pure laziness._

_And, for the last goddamn time, I don’t kill pirates. Stop telling my mother I kill pirates. I haven’t opened her letter yet, but if it’s something about me being a pirate killer, find a lawyer—I’m filing for divorce._

_Love,_

_Hajime_

* * *

To be fair, their letters used to be very heartfelt and serious at first and didn’t include running jokes about how Oikawa can’t feed himself. Four months off the coast of Djibouti was a big deal— _everyone_ was surprised when Iwaizumi learned he had to be shipped off to go monitor pirate activity off the Horn of Africa. It was called the Japan _Self-Defense_ Forces for a reason. His mother fainted when she heard. Oikawa...well, Oikawa didn’t faint, but he did cry over their near-daily (they tried, at least, at that point) video call. 

“I can’t believe you’re leaving Japan,” he had said, his face only slightly illuminated by his phone in the darkness of his shoebox San Juan apartment. “You were only supposed to have four months of service left.” 

“And I’ll be spending them in Africa,” Iwaizumi had said blandly. “I kinda thought you would be happy, considering this will be a whole lot more exciting than my current station. Just last week you were complaining about how my war stories are boring, since they’re not war stories at all, they’re just training exercise stories.” 

“No,” Oikawa had pouted. “No, I am not happy.”

Iwaizumi had waited patiently for him to elaborate, tightening the laces on his boots. 

He finally spoke, voice crackling through the speakers. “I haven’t seen you since I left. Nearly three years, Hajime, and I didn’t even wait for your send-off. What if I never see you again? What if some pirate comes and kills you while I’m in the middle of a match or something?” 

“I won’t be killed by some pirate, Tooru. The destroyer I’m on is only escorting boats through the waterway. There’s no combat involved. There never has been any combat involved.” 

He frowned in the low light as if that were a worse answer. As if he _wanted_ Iwaizumi to have a high-stakes, combat-filled job, just for drama’s sake, but also didn’t want there to be any stakes at all.

Iwaizumi continued, “And we’ve had this conversation, what, at least fifty separate times since my term started. We see each other all the time. You had to go do pre-season things in Argentina and I had to go enlist. Me being stationed somewhere else doesn’t change anything.”

The pout relaxes, then intensifies in a dramatic fashion. “If you die in some African place that I’ve never heard of—” 

“Djibouti.” 

“Juh-whatever. I’ll never forgive you. Won’t even come home for your funeral.” 

Iwaizumi had whipped his head around, then, when he was sure no one could hear—he had taken the very last timeslot for video calls on purpose—said, “Some military boyfriend you are.” 

“Mean, Iwa-chan.” 

Iwaizumi still felt this weird knot of guilt in his gut, despite Oikawa playing it off. “I really am serious, Tooru. No JMSDF sailor has ever died abroad. I have no plans on being the first, so don’t cheat on me yet. I’ll be working in the sickbay doing the same things I’ve been doing, just in a different location.” 

“Cheat on you? Iwa-chan, don’t be ridiculous. Just—“

He stopped his own sentence abruptly, bottom lip wedged tight between his teeth. 

Iwaizumi started fiddling with his boot laces again but then decided to take point. “I miss you. I’m thinking about you all the time.” 

“Me, too.” His voice cracked once more, and though Iwaizumi can’t see much through the grainy screen, the new shine of light indicated something was reflecting, and it looked too much like tears. “I love you. I can’t wait for you to come home.”

“Tooru…” Iwaizumi breathed awkwardly, unsure of how to comfort his high school sweetheart without physical affection. This wasn’t the first time he’d had an emotional episode over a call with him, but that doesn’t make it any easier. “Love you, too, Tooru. It’ll be fine. Just wait and see. Keep sending me pictures of all your UPCN stuff. And pictures of Kageyama and Kindaichi and Kunimi. And your dumb letters.”

He perked up at that. 

* * *

Another week passes. Another mail call comes. After a long, boring day of testing the water quality on the ship, Iwaizumi cannot wait to have Oikawa’s company through paper. 

“One letter for you, Sailor,” the clerk says as he hands him the inspected, stamp-filled envelope. He grins and gestures to it. “Your wife sure is consistent with her letters.” 

“She is,” Iwaizumi agrees without elaboration, then decides to try and pry some information out of him. “Do you know why the command office still searches my mail from her? It’s been two months now.” 

“Well, she _is_ in Argentina. I guess that looks suspicious.” The clerk shrugs then winks. “I don’t think they actually read the mail that thoroughly, she doesn’t have to hold anything back.” 

Iwaizumi grins forcefully. If only he knew. “Thank you, sir.” 

“You’re welcome.” As Iwaizumi turns to leave, he interrupts, “Oh! The supply officers are going to the garrison tonight to restock before we meet up with the EU forces for the exercises. We’ll be gone for two weeks, so would you want anything from the mainland?” 

“No, sir. Thank you, sir,” Iwaizumi says quickly, reflexively. He’s eager to go read the letter—it feels thick. 

He leaves the line and starts heading back to his quarters, then turns on his heel as he remembers. “Actually, could I get more paper and ink?” 

“Can do!” He salutes, all smiles. 

Iwaizumi smiles back and thanks him again, then practically sprints back to his quarters. He doesn’t even notice that his bunkmate is there until he peeks his head over and taps his shoulder. 

Iwaizumi jumps. “Hey, Sato. Sorry, did I wake you up?” 

He shrugs sleepily. “My watch starts in an hour anyways. From your wife?” he asks regardless. 

“Yeah.” 

He slides off the bunk to sit next to Iwaizumi. “Open it.” 

It’s moments like these where Iwaizumi is actually deeply grateful for Oikawa’s bullshit and his gender-neutral given name. Queer people aren’t barred from service in the JSDF, but that doesn’t mean Iwaizumi wants everyone knowing about his boyfriend. He had spun this elaborate lie about being his wife to avoid what they called _The Conversation_ , and from then on, the lie grew to include their three “children”—Kunimi, Kindaichi, and Kageyama—and the volleyball-player twin brother-in-law. 

The children part and the wife part weren’t necessary, but Oikawa loved to roleplay a pining wartime housewife for some reason. Iwaizumi had to admit, it could be pretty entertaining on days of repetitive, boring duty. 

Iwaizumi slides the letter out of the packing—out pops another baby photo of Kageyama, this time holding a cat, arms extended as the cat panics in his arms. The photo has to be at least seventeen years old. Where does Oikawa get these baby pictures?

_Dear husband,_

**_I_ ** _t has been three cold, long winters since you’ve_ **_go_ ** _ne to figh_ **_t_ ** _the war. I hope you’ve been well on your ship killing those sw_ **_a_ ** _shbuckling pirates; I’ve busied myself with perfecting my cooking skills for your brother-in-law and for you when you come home. The_ **_c_ ** _hildren_ **_a_ ** _re well, bu_ **_t_ ** _they miss you dearly too. Speaking of, I’m afraid I have bad news for you. Or, perhaps, happy news. We're going to have a new daughter soon. I hope you are not too upset with me._

_Love,_

_Your LOYAL Tooru_

_(P.S., our daughter’s name is Kiki-chan :D)_

More pictures of Kageyama and this cat fall out. His baby face is so sweet and round, so different from how the high school senior looks now, and Iwaizumi’s heart squeezes with some sort of latent affection. Jeez, he _feels_ like a real dad. There’s another picture of only the cat, definitely more clear and recent, and this one must be the one Oikawa got, Kiki. She doesn’t look all that much like the cat Kageyama is holding. 

So, Oikawa got a cat and bothered to get pictures from Kageyama to add to the story. He must be actually lonely, then. 

“Oh my God, is your wife pregnant?” Sato asks, squinting at the letter. “Jesus, Iwaizumi, I’m so sorry.” 

Iwaizumi looks at him and blinks, then bursts into laughter. “No, no, she’s fucking with me, she’s trying to tell me she got a cat. Look,” Iwaizumi holds up the picture of baby Kageyama and the cat. 

“Oh,” Sato says, eyebrows rising. “Damn. I wish Chiasa had a sense of humor. All she ever does is cry about how much it sucks that I’m not around.” 

“Well, Tooru does some of that, too, but...” Iwaizumi chuckles slightly. Sato’s wife is...a bit of a situation. She’s infertile, and so Sato lives vicariously through Iwaizumi and his “young family.” When Iwaizumi told Oikawa this story, he sent about twenty pictures of the “triplets” for him to see. Sato’s usually-stoic face always lights up whenever the triplets are mentioned. So maybe the lie isn’t so bad after all, if it serves a greater purpose. 

Sato thumbs through the pictures. “I can’t believe you got triplets, man. How old are you? Twenty-one?” 

“Mm.” 

“Your poor wife. Damn high school sweethearts. Shit, just reminding me I’m old,” he drawls. Sato is twenty-nine and is another enlisted man like Iwaizumi, though his weathered face indicates more age. He works as a boatswain’s mate, putting in hard labor with ship rigging and deck machinery in the intense equatorial sun. “Did you get mess yet?” 

“No. You?” 

“Nah. Let’s go,” he invites. 

They make their way down the corridors, leisurely when no one’s looking and briskly when the officers pass by. They catch a glimpse of Captain Irihata as he makes his way to the bridge and they both salute, though he barely nods to them. They’re lower-deck men. 

Once they head down to the enlisted mess and get their plates of curry—watery and sad but spicy enough for it not to matter—Sato asks, “How come I never see pictures of your wife?” 

“She’s camera-shy, remember?” Iwaizumi spits out the same response he always gives.

“Right, right,” he nods. “What’s she look like again? Remind me.” 

“Beautiful,” Iwaizumi says without hesitation. 

Sato snorts. “Aren’t they always?” 

“Athletic, too. Lithe,” Iwaizumi adds, and to further build his case of straightness, says, “Good in bed.” Though that wasn’t a lie in the least. 

Sato bursts out laughing. “Crazy young people. Horny as hell.” 

“Like you _aren’t_ either of those things,” Iwaizumi laughs. 

“No, I’m old! Really!” Sato protests. “Almost too old to re-enlist, now. I’m out in a month.” 

The buzz of conversation between all the enlisted men in the mess hall comes to an abrupt stop when Lieutenant Commander Mizoguchi steps in, boots gleaming in the fluorescent low-deck light.

“Seaman Hayashi!” He booms. A vein stands out on his forehead. 

“Yes, sir!” The poor apprentice stands up hastily, nearly tipping over his cup of water in the process. The single red stripe on his coveralls indicates just how inexperienced he is, and just how much of a beating he’s about to get.

Mizoguchi loves to pick on the little ones.

“With me,” he grumbles, turning on his heel.

Hayashi scrambles over towards the exit, following behind their commanding officer. Iwaizumi notices how his boot laces tremble, how his fists are balled at his sides.

The volume in the mess hall gradually returns to its previous level as the enlisted men sense their commanding officer moving farther and farther away—whispers, then back to laughter and clinking of silverware.

That could be him one day if Mizoguchi ever finds out about him and Oikawa. He needs to be extra careful.

“Whaddya think he did?” Sato murmurs.

Iwaizumi raises his eyebrows. Honestly, he didn’t really care what he did to deserve it. “Oh. I saw him this morning running down the corridor ‘cos he was late for duty.”

“Yeesh, harsh. Glad I haven’t been subjected to the Commander’s wrath recently.” 

Iwaizumi bites down on the tip of his chopstick, throwing manners out the window to channel his nervous energy. “Are you joining the reserves after this?” 

Sato pauses from where he was stuffing an entire banana in his mouth, surprised by the subject change. “Uh, I’m thinkin’ about it. Could use the money. God knows the only job I’d get after I leave would be fishing.” 

Iwaizumi nods—this was true. Boatswains are made for boats. Iwaizumi had more career latitude as a hospital corpsman. 

“What about you?” 

“Thinking about it,” he parrots. Oikawa will be gone for large portions of his life, chasing his dreams and doing what he loves. If Iwaizumi’s gone some of the time, it’s not like he would notice. “Depends on what job I get when I leave.” 

Back to shoving the banana in his face. “What are you gonna do?” 

“I dunno, probably be an EMT or something. I have my TCCC and I don’t want to waste it.” 

He had worked hard to get that trauma certification while he was still stationed in Kanagawa, surrounded by a bunch of tall, blonde, buff Americans who knew more about trauma than he did. They saw combat and Iwaizumi didn’t and probably never would. All day, Iwaizumi treats seasickness and sunburns and scratches. Maybe an actual chemical burn if the day is exciting. Hospital Corpsman, ha. More like Band-Aid Brigadier. 

“I’m gonna pretend I know what that means, but Doc Iwaizumi, that has a nice ring,” he drawls. 

“Doc—you’re funny,” Iwaizumi sputters, pointing his fork at him. “As if I’d go back to school long enough for that.” 

“School is good for you,” Sato replies in a rare burst of intellectual conviction. “Maybe I’ll go back to school. Be a...be a rocket scientist,” his voice quickly dissolves into giggles. 

Iwaizumi tips his head back. “Pffft. Mention me in your Nobel speech, alright? Bunkmate, confidante, friend, Iwaizumi Hajime.” 

“Oh, that’ll be the day.” 

* * *

_Tooru,_

_Those pictures of Tobio are sweet, but it looks like the cat hates him. Congrats on getting the cat, though, I know that’s supposed to be a big milestone for people or whatever. Please don’t kill the cat. I want her to be alive when I come back._

_I’m glad you’re working on your cooking skills. Your brother looks a little more healthy recently since he’s been getting better food in him. But make sure he’s getting a good night’s rest every day, alright? That way, he’ll be even better at his volleyball and his SO in the Navy won’t worry about him so much._

**_Iwaizumi thinks you’re good in bed! Love, Sato._ **

_As you can see, Sato sends his regards._

_Send more pictures. Kiki’s cute. Teach her to sit or fetch or something, make her useful. Or teach her my name, even better._

_Love,_

_Hajime_

* * *

The joint exercises pass on without much fanfare. It was nice to get a change from the pattern of escorts—up the waterway, down the waterway, all day, all night. This time, they get to go further offshore, surrounded by the big blue and ready to do some fake fighting. 

Iwaizumi gets his picture taken with a bunch of white EU dudes and they all pretend to capture some pirates doing small-vessel close-proximity drills. Just in case, they all say. Iwaizumi even gets his hands on artillery, doing some anti-surface firing until his skull rattles and his entire arms buzz. 

Then, he works out some more. Beats those tall-ass white dudes in an arm-wrestling competition, then beats them in hand-to-hand sparring, then beats them in target shooting, too. They’re rowdy and loud and athletic—it almost felt like the club room back at Seijoh, if instead of volleyballs, they all had pistols. 

The supply officers deliver his additional stationery two days into the mission. Iwaizumi knows that if he writes a letter, it won’t be mailed until the end of the exercise, but he writes them anyway. 

* * *

_Dear Mom,_

_Everything is fine here. I’m in the middle of a training exercise with some sailors from the EU, which is a nice change of pace. We’re constantly preparing and learning from each other. My English has gotten a lot better since high school—I thought you’d be proud of that—and I’ve picked up some French, Arabic, and Somali, too. Not enough to be fluent, by any means, and not enough to be able to write it, but by the time I get home, I’ll be a regular prodigy._

_How is book club going? I’m returning last month’s book in this package and I’m excited to read whatever you send next._

_Is Dad doing okay? Tell him I say thank you for the mochi (and my bunkmate does too)._

_Thank you for all of your letters and concern. I am safe, but I’m looking forward to coming home. Only seven weeks now!_

_(And, no matter what Tooru may say, he’s wrong—I am not, and never will be, a pirate killer.)_

_Love,_

_Hajime_

* * *

_Hanamaki,_

_Asshole, don’t send me porn! You were lucky that letter wasn’t searched! My commanding officer is a prude and wouldn’t think it was funny. Also, Tooru would murder you if he knew you were trying to tempt me._

**_Send more! Love, Hajime’s bunkmate, Sato!_ **

_Please ignore that._

_Anyway, I’m glad university is going okay. Are the parties really good? And how is being roommates with Matsukawa?_

_...and are you guys more than roommates now?_

_All that aside, I learned a few new insults in Somali. They are attached on the notecard in the envelope. Do with them what you wish. See you in seven weeks._

_—Iwaizumi_

* * *

_Kindaichi, Kunimi, and Kageyama,_

_Thank you for asking about me—things are great. Yes, Djibouti is very hot and sandy, but we don’t notice it so much out on the Onami._

_Kindaichi: yes, we use real guns. I’ve advanced to the Sharpshooter rating, which is 30 out of 35 target hits in a sitting, so that makes me pretty qualified. This doesn’t really change my job at all, but I guess that is pretty badass._

_Kunimi: no, I have not fallen asleep on duty, thank God, though I’ve come close. I don’t think you’d like the punishment we get for that._

_Kageyama: the food is pretty good on the ship. Not as good as back home, but still good. On the ship, we usually have some sort of curry or noodles and whatever extra food that the garrison supply officers bring in from the mainland. The food on the mainland is very different from back home, but Somali curry tastes sortof similar to Japan’s if you close your eyes. I think you’d like it._

_To everyone: how is your third year going? I hate to be the one to ask this, since you get asked all the time, but are we looking at university? And volleyball? How is the team? The jerseys look great on you guys, thanks for the pictures. I know the Spring Nationals are coming up—keep working on your serving drills. Did you guys find a new libero?_

_Also, please try hard in English! I’m not worried about Kunimi, but Kindaichi and Kageyama,_ _do_ _your_ _best_ _! I know it seems dumb, but I’m really wishing I had paid more attention in class. I’m doing a joint training exercise with some foreigners right now and I’m learning on the fly. Tutor me, Kunimi, please._

_Anyways, keep working hard and keep sending pictures. Don’t let Oikawa pester you too much for baby photos—you’ve got to be running out by now, right?_

_Best,_

_Iwaizumi_

* * *

“Aurghhh,” Sato sighs loudly as he flops onto Iwaizumi’s bunk. “God, my head.” 

“I know,” Iwaizumi groans in sympathy and hops into Sato’s bunk, curling under the wool blanket and then throwing it off when he starts sweating. “I thought we’d _never_ finish watch. I almost puked on a poor sailor while popping in his dislocated shoulder.” 

“Why the hell did those French bastards bring all that liquor for?” Sato whines. “Cognac this, cognac that. Fuckin’...God. Oh, God, my _head_.” 

“There is no God,” Iwaizumi hisses. 

“Distract me, Sailor.” 

Iwaizumi pushes his head into Sato’s pillow, smelling of saltwater and harsh regulation soap. “I dunno, I’m too tired to think of a new story, and you hate volleyball stories.” 

“What about a letter from your wife?” 

Iwaizumi rolls over now—he nearly forgot about it. Some bullshit from Oikawa would maybe be nice. “Ugh...I got it this morning, it’s underneath the bunk.” 

There’s some exaggerated groans while he rifles around for it, then passes it up to him. He pops open the envelope, fingers shaking, and pulls out the letter and a few pictures. 

_To my dear and loving husband,_

_I_ **_H_ ** _OPE YOU HAVE B_ **_E_ ** _EN WE_ **_L_ ** _L._ **_P_ ** _LEASE STAY SAFE AND COME HOME SOON,_ **_KI_ ** _NDAICHI AND_ **_K_ ** _UN_ **_I_ ** _MI MISS YOU DEARLY. I THINK TO_ **_B_ ** _IO DOES TOO; HE_ **_R_ ** _EALLY MISSES Y_ **_O_ ** _U._ **_K E_ ** _EP LIVING, L_ **_A_ ** _UGHING, LOVING, AND SOON WE WILL BE_ **_R_ ** _EUNITED. REME_ **_M_ ** _BER, MY LOVE FOR YOU IS ETERNAL. ALSO, DON'T WORRY, T **H** _ ** _E_ ** _RE'S NOTHING WRONG, I JUST FE_ **_L_ ** _T LIKE WRITING IN CA_ **_P_ ** _ITALS TODAY._

_Forever your wife,_

_Tooru_

“Whazzit say?” 

“I don’t really know...Something’s wrong with Kiki.” Iwaizumi frowns and picks up the photos—there was one of Kiki, sleeping with her arm twisted up underneath her, and Oikawa’s panicked face next to her. “Wait, just kidding, I think Tooru’s overreacting. You got a cat? See if this is normal.” 

He passes him the photo. 

“I dunno, cats are fucked up.” Sato passes the photo back. “Who’s that guy in the picture?” 

Iwaizumi nearly chokes on his own spit. “Tooru’s brother, remember?” 

“Oh, yeah, right. It’s nice that your wife has some company at home.” Sato yawns, then is completely silent. 

“...Are you dead?” Iwaizumi asks, too achy to lean over the bed and check. 

“I may...need some company puking.” 

“Fuck. C’mon, get up, no puking on my bunk.” 

* * *

“Iwa-chan! You look like hell!” 

Iwaizumi frowns. To be fair, the ship’s fluorescent lights probably wash him out more than usual. It hurts his eyes. “Thanks.” 

“What’s wrong with you? Did something happen?” His eyes flick away from the screen momentarily. “ _Me voy, es mi novio!_ ” He yells off-screen. His practice-sweaty hair sticks to his forehead while his head flips around.

“Oi. I’m fine. Stop panicking. I’m surviving a hangover.” He yawns. “Look, I won’t keep you from practice long, I only have three minutes because I’m borrowing this computer from a German officer. Did you break Kiki?” 

“Did I…” Oikawa frowns, remembering, then his face lights up. “Oh! The letter! That was two weeks ago! I guess you only got it today. No, she’s fine! She rolled around after I took the picture. But she scared me! And I figured you could use the drama!” 

Iwaizumi lets out a sigh. “God, Assikawa. I was actually worried about Kiki.” 

“Don’t worry, Iwa-chan, I won’t let anything happen to our new baby.” 

He and Oikawa just look at each other for a few moments. Oikawa smushes his face down into the palm of his hand and smiles at him as he sets his phone to rest on a table in what must be the locker room of the UPCN. 

“What’re you grinning for?” Iwaizumi grunts—internally, he’s delighted to see Oikawa happy. Especially when he gives him _that_ look. The hopelessly-in-love look that he would give him across the room in high school chemistry, across the court in volleyball, and hopefully across the aisle one day. 

“You, Iwa-chan. You’re nice to look at.” Oikawa smiles brilliantly. “What’s new on the Onami? Still doing that stuff with the foreigners?” 

“Still doing the EU stuff, yeah. Five days and we’ll be done.” 

“Good. Be sure you’re getting lots of rest,” Oikawa lectures gently. “I can’t believe I have to remind you of that. It’s usually you saying that.” 

Iwaizumi chuckles. “Thank you, Tooru. I will.” 

The dreamy grin returns. “Forty-seven days until I see you. I’m buying my plane ticket tonight.” 

Iwaizumi thumbs the computer screen. “Forty-seven days.” 

“ _Cuarenta y siete._ ” 

“Where are you staying? Wait, how long are you staying?” 

“I wasn’t sure. I mean, you probably want to spend some time with your parents, right?” 

“Not if you aren’t around, though.” 

Oikawa frowns in concentration, then brightens. “Come home to Argentina. Spend a week or so with your parents and then come home to Argentina with me. An enlistment honeymoon.” 

Iwaizumi considers this. His parents would hate this idea. But...uninterrupted Tooru time. All the time. Tooru all the time. He could do that. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d do that.” 

“Really?” Oikawa laughs, pure joy coursing over his features. “Really, Hajime?” 

“Really, Tooru.” 

“Well! Guess I’ll have to clean up my apartment!” Oikawa beams and winks. “Keep killing those pirates in the meantime.” 

“Okay, I am _not_ a pirate killer.” 

“My pirate killer!” The door to the locker room squeaks open and Oikawa bursts into a sing-song tone. “Everyone! I love my pirate killer, Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Forces Petty Officer Third Class Hajime Iwaizumi, Hospital Corpsman! _Quiero mi...uh, como se dice, el asesino de...piratas! Lo quiero mucho!_ ” 

Iwaizumi now breaks into a laugh. “You’re ridiculous. Did you just yell about me in Spanish? Tell your teammates I’m sorry on your behalf.” 

Oikawa flips the camera, showing three of his teammates, tanned and sweaty. “ _Se disculpa._ ” 

Player number one waves. “ _Todo bien!_ ” 

Player number two gives a thumbs-up. “ _S_ _í,_ _s_ _í_.” 

Player number three takes a big breath and stutters out in stilted Japanese, “Hello!”

“Hello,” Iwaizumi giggles, giving a slight bow of his neck. 

_“Buen trabajo!”_ Oikawa says to him, patting his back. “Look at him go! Cavanna-chan is so smart!” 

Iwaizumi laughs at them for a few beats. Oikawa seems so happy there, the center of attention like usual. 

He’ll get to be a part of that in forty-seven days. 

He glances up at the clock on the wall. “Shit. Tooru, I gotta go.” 

His smile dissolves and he grips the phone in his hands, bringing it close to his face. “ _Ay, no!_ Stay!” 

“Yeah, I do. I have to go.” Iwaizumi shakes his head, then tacks on, “Love you.”

“Love you!” 

* * *

“Woo!” Sato grins as he adjusts his coveralls and away gear. “Last day of the exercises, _and_ we get a distress call? It’s like we actually have a job that matters!” 

Iwaizumi grins, zipping up his own gear. “I still can’t believe we were chosen to go overboard.” 

“I know, right?” Sato is practically giddy, buzzing with excitement. 

“Sato! Iwaizumi! What are you, sailors or schoolgirls? We’re off!” Mizoguchi barks at them and they scramble across the deck, boarding the small craft they would use to intercept the distress call boat. 

There are five of them on the little away team—Mizoguchi commanding, Sato at the helm, the apprentices, Hayashi and Tanabe, there for observation, and Iwaizumi for medical support of the passengers onboard _and_ because of his status as sharpshooter.

His 9mm pistol sits heavy at his hip—in fact, they’re all strapped, just in case this isn’t actually a distress call and is some sort of trap instead. Iwaizumi knows he probably won’t have to use his sidearm, but the mental weight of a killing machine on his hip is heavy. 

He looks out at the sea—a completely cloudless sky above them intersects it at the horizon, making nature’s gradient of blue. Not far off lies a sportfisher yacht, floating aimlessly and spilling oil. Its pristine white hull contrasts sharply with the deep blue of its surrounding waters. 

Distress call. That was all. He would give first aid to anyone who needed it and would give...reverse first aid to anyone who deserved it. 

The approach is quick, quicker than Iwaizumi thought it would go. It’s not like this is his first distress call or even his first piracy drill, but still. It’s moving fast. 

“ _Hello!_ ” Mizoguchi calls in clear, precise English through his megaphone. _“We have come from the JS Onami in response to your distress call!”_

No one is on the deck. That should have been their first sign that something was wrong. 

“Slow your approach, Sato,” Mizoguchi orders. 

They slow. 

_“MY Hemel!”_ He calls the ship by name. _“Would the commander of the vessel come onto the deck?”_

The most obvious bad sign comes next. An empty skiff floats out from behind the ship, tied loosely to the cleat of the yacht. Someone had boarded. 

Sato and Iwaizumi make eye contact for a brief moment, panic etching Sato’s leathery face. Piracy. 

“Well, sailors, has your training pulled off or not?” Mizoguchi grunts. “Tanabe, signal the Onami. We’re going aboard.” 

Iwaizumi’s body tightens like a bowstring as he listens to Tanabe shakily reporting to their ship. They continue their approach and Mizoguchi gestures to Iwaizumi—he comes forward and draws his pistol. 

It’s loaded. The safety’s off. He has another clip in his pocket. 

Deep breaths. He scans the deck—empty—and his index finger brushes the trigger. He’s practiced so many times. He’s a sharpshooter, for Christ’s sake, he _knows how this works_. It just...feels very different, like he’s in bootcamp and this is the first time he’s ever picked up his SIG Sauer, like he’s never heard a gunshot before. 

“Tie us up,” Mizoguchi grunts as they approach the hull. 

The higher-ranking men disembark while the apprentices tie their boat up, rope wrapping around cleats like white, twisting snakes. Iwaizumi is acutely aware of every sound—the cinch of rope, the splash of water, the gentle patter of everyone’s boots on the deck of the foreign ship, Sato’s heavy breath.

A thumping from below deck. 

_“Come above deck!”_ Mizoguchi commands. “Sailors, defensive positions. Iwaizumi, take point.” 

Everyone draws their pistols now. Iwaizumi takes point and sharpens his gaze, focus narrowing towards the bridge hatch. Like he’s up to serve in a high school volleyball game. 

_Come on. Bring it. Bring it, bringitbringitbringitbringitbringitbring—_

All is silent until it’s no longer silent. Iwaizumi hears the sharp cry of a woman and the hatch opens with a jerk and a squeal. 

Iwaizumi’s focus narrows even more. There are two gunmen, both clutching hostages in their arms: a man and a woman, middle aged. They’re civilians, European, probably, given the blonde hair and the name of the ship. 

There is a pistol held to her swollen belly—she’s pregnant. Iwaizumi sees Sato stiffen in his peripheral vision. 

The pirate holding the man steps forward, dragging his hostage with him. “ _Leave this ship, or the wife and baby die!”_

_“You will release the hostages, by order of Operation Ocean Shield and the Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Forces,”_ Mizoguchi states, calm as can be now that hostages are involved. 

Iwaizumi keeps flicking back and forth between the leader, holding the man, and his skinny, young subordinate, holding the pregnant woman. The smaller pirate seems more unsteady and flitty than the older leader and this is more dangerous. He could easily pull the trigger in his panic. 

_“Three million USD!”_ The leader booms. _“Those are my terms!”_

_“You will release the hostages before we negotiate ransom.”_ Mizoguchi steps forward and the formation changes—more offensive, with Iwaizumi and Mizoguchi’s pistols aimed at the leader and Sato, Tanabe, and Hayashi’s pistols aimed at the subordinate. _“Drop your weapons.”_

_“Money first!”_

Mizoguchi remains steadfast. _“Drop your weapons or my men will open fire. We will discuss terms without hostages present.”_

The smaller pirate’s eyes dart around, looking at the guns pointed towards him. He’s rethinking, teetering on the edge of his decision. 

The leader seems to consider the situation, then pushes the barrel of the gun farther into the man’s temple. _“You will give me my money?”_

_“We will discuss payment after the hostages are released.”_

The civilian man winces as the barrel of the gun is pressed against his temple even further. 

The next few moments happen in rapid succession—too fast for Iwaizumi to react coherently, despite all his training. The lead pirate pistol-whips the man, ending his whimpers without any hesitation. He falls to the ground, unconscious, and Iwaizumi’s aim focuses more clearly onto the leader. 

Then, the wife cries out in horror. The leader says something to the subordinate in rapid Somali that none of Iwaizumi’s language classes could decode, but the tone was clear. The gun moves in the subordinate’s hand, the tip of the barrel prodding into her belly menacingly. 

Sato, unable to control himself, moves out of formation and lunges towards the subordinate before he can kill the woman and her unborn child. The subordinate dodges, dropping the woman in the meantime, but Sato is faster. He has him pinned, lying prone on the deck like all their training has taught them. The woman scrambles away towards the sailors. 

The young pirate shouts out. The leader pirate reacts. 

A bullet whizzes through the air and sinks into Sato’s right thigh with a _put_. 

Iwaizumi’s grip on his gun loosens. His breath catches in his throat and the trigger sits heavy between his fingers. No. No, no, no, they weren’t supposed to—no, no one was supposed to get hurt, they’re the JSDF. No. 

Sato collapses, crumpling to the deck while his feeble grip on the young pirate wavers. He struggles, starting to escape and reach towards his rifle. 

The pregnant woman screams. 

“Go!” Mizoguchi commands, and that’s all the sailors need to hear. Hayashi replaces Sato’s spot, holding the young pirate down firmly. Tanabe surges forward to pull away the male hostage and disarm the leader—his gun fires off into the water and everyone jumps. Mizoguchi follows and unloads the offending pistol, bullets raining out from the magazine. 

Once he’s sure he doesn’t need to murder anyone, Iwaizumi slides to his knees on the deck next to Sato, heaving him to lay on his back. “Sato. Sato, stay with me now, you’re gonna be fine,” he says, not even aware of his words. 

“Iwaizumi,” he chokes out, breath wheezing with pain. “Iwaizumi, he…” 

“I know, I know. You’re gonna be fine.” 

Iwaizumi heaves his right leg, soaked with blood through to his ankles and soiling his dark blue uniform, up onto his knee to elevate it. No exit wound. Good, less bleeding. He pops open his pockets and finds the dark green field dressing to wrap around his thigh tightly. 

He rips open the package, pressing it onto the wound as firmly as he can and tying the tails of the bandage around it. Blood is all over Iwaizumi’s ungloved hands. Even if it isn’t arterial, which Iwaizumi isn’t sure about, he’s in danger of shock. His pulse is still present in his ankle, but...

“It’s not bleeding too bad. You’ll be fine, Sato. Hey,” Iwaizumi tries to keep talking to him. His face is getting paler by the second, eyes unfocused. “Hey, I need you to wiggle your foot. Can you do that?” 

He tries, face screwing up as his foot twitches. ”Fuck,” he heaves, looking close to puking. 

“Good, good job,” Iwaizumi says, keeping his tight hold on the dressing. 

It’s soaking through, seeping out bright red. It’s arterial. 

Iwaizumi holds a sharp, poking thumb to his femoral artery. The bleeding slows. 

He takes this brief respite to look towards Commander Mizoguchi—still negotiating with the pirates. 

“Commander!” He yells, making sure to speak in the language the pirates won’t understand. “He needs to go!” 

“Buy him time until the Onami gets here!” He hollers back, then continues with the pirates. 

Why is he wasting his— _Sato’s_ —time on this? Iwaizumi understands that the Coast Guard, not the JMSDF, is responsible for arrests by order of the Constitution, but still, can’t he make an exception this time? 

“Iwaizumi…” Sato moans. 

“Shh, shh, you’re fine. You’re fine. Rest.” Iwaizumi continues with his treatment. He needs to move on to a pressure dressing. He empties his pockets, finding rolls of gauze and muslin, and gets to work on the secondary dressing, folding until he makes a cravat to tie around it. 

“No, no, Iwaizumi, he...he…” Sato pants. “Listen.” 

“I’m listening,” Iwaizumi grunts, still completely occupied with applying more pressure. The tails won’t come undone and his hands are shaking too bad to tie the knot. 

“He—look, revolv—” Sato says, low and hushed, before he breaks into a low moan as Iwaizumi’s fingers press harder into the gunshot wound. 

_Revolver._ He was trying to say _revolver._

Iwaizumi keeps Sato’s leg perched firmly on his knee but spins, unholstering his pistol and aiming it directly at the leader, who currently has a small six-shot revolver aimed directly at Mizoguchi’s head while he negotiates with the younger pirate. Tanabe must not be able to see it from this angle. 

No. No, not his Commander, too, _no. No more._

“Tanabe! Get down!” Iwaizumi shouts. 

Aim. Shoot the hand to disarm. Aim. Aim. The red sight lines up. Aim. Breath. Fire. 

The pistol kicks in Iwaizumi’s hand, but he keeps it steady. A gold shell pops out with a _clink_ onto the deck. The revolver falls out of the leader pirate’s grip.

But Iwaizumi’s bullet has landed between his eyes, not his hand. 

Iwaizumi has killed a man. A criminal—a _pirate_ —that was trying to kill his friend and his Commander. But he’s still a man. And Iwaizumi still killed him. 

Mizoguchi looks between the revolver and at Iwaizumi rapidly, the realization that his life was just exchanged with another’s setting in. Tanabe is hyperventilating. Hayashi has started to sob. Sato is nodding listlessly, gripping at Iwaizumi’s arm. 

Iwaizumi feels more control right now than he’s ever felt in his entire service term. It’s making his chest ache.

* * *

The rest of the day passes without _any_ conscious thought on Iwaizumi’s side. They’re too far out to sail back to port without Sato bleeding out along the way, so he’s airlifted back to the garrison. 

Iwaizumi isn’t allowed to follow. There’s supposed to be something about a debrief, which never ends up happening, _typical_ , so he just goes back to his and Sato’s quarters to try and decompress by himself as soon as the watch bell goes off. 

This doesn’t work out well. He crawls into Sato’s bunk, enjoying the smell of the salt and the sweat and the soap on his pillow, then starts to sob.

His nails have his blood under them, even after scrubbing for twenty minutes straight. He decides to cut them but just ends up trimming to the quick. They bleed, but at least they bleed Iwaizumi’s blood. 

  
  


_Tooru,_

_This letter will probably never make it to you, but I’ll write it anyways. I want to forget today, but I also want to remember every detail as sharply as I can. I may be dishonorably discharged soon for what I did._

_On the back of this page is an account of a rescue mission we did today. Please be patient with my handwriting—my fingers were bleeding and I was having a hard time holding my pen._

_I miss you now more than ever. I wish I could hold you right now, and I wish you could hold me right now. I don’t think anything will ever be the same. I don’t think I’ve ever hurt more in my life._

_Love,_

  
  
  


He can’t even sign it. It goes straight into his backpack, never to be stamped and addressed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. hi again. 
> 
> 1) thank you lin, for everything. they wrote most of oikawa's notes in this fic, and kiki is their real-life cat! please go visit their page up at the dedication!  
> 2) [the JS Onami is a real ship in the Gulf of Aden that did real exercises with the EU](https://sldinfo.com/2020/10/japanese-eu-naval-security-cooperation-october-2020/) and NATO, so that's pretty neat.  
> 3) sato...is a plot device, but he's a plot device that i hold very near and dear to my heart. at this point, aren't we all just plot devices?  
> 4) there will be more mushy, actual love between oikawa and iwaizumi in the coming chapters, i promise!
> 
> sooooo, whatdja think? questions, concerns, suggestions? see you next Wednesday for part 2 of 4!


	2. don't worry but i won't be able to write for a while

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _status quo /ˌstādəs ˈkwō/:_ (n.) something Iwaizumi Hajime (21) (Petty Officer Third Class Hospital Corpsman And Marksman) is having a hard time finding

Two days pass while they head back for port. The events of the mission spread around the Onami like a norovirus in the ship’s drinking water, toxic and nauseating in the pit of Iwaizumi’s stomach. It’s only compounded when they intercept with a Dutch frigate to deposit the former hostages with their home country. That very same frigate had been in the EU exercises just three days beforehand, but this definitely had a different air about it. 

Why any civilian would choose to holiday with their yacht in the Gulf of Aden, crawling with pirates and subsequent military ships, Iwaizumi doesn’t know. 

All the sailors report on deck in their dress blues as they meet up with the ship for the transfer of the civilians. Iwaizumi’s enlisted sailor collar ties lay heavy on his shoulders as he assumes formation, arms pulled tight behind his back and neck bent down towards his shoes. His white belt isn’t quite as pristine and bright as it should be, but oh well. 

Sato usually stands next to him when they assume formation. 

He just wants to leave. 

Captain Irihata chats amicably with the captain of the Dutch frigate—Captain Visser? He doesn’t remember, something Dutch—and accepts the thanks of the hostages as if everything is fine and there isn’t a bodybag below deck next to the occupied brig. 

The pregnant woman suddenly turns around and exclaims in English,  _ “The sailors that saved me, too!”  _ She points towards them, identifying Mizoguchi, Tanabe, Hayashi, and Iwaizumi without any hesitation. 

Irihata makes eye contact with Mizoguchi, who turns around and says, “Come forward, sailors.” 

Iwaizumi makes his way out of the formation with the other two apprentices, looking equally panicked. They come to stand in front of the two captains and the woman. 

_ “Thank you,”  _ she says, looking each of them in the eyes. Her husband nods in accordance.  _ “The fifth sailor—the one who saved me first—is he okay?”  _

She looks directly at Iwaizumi and any words he had in his throat die out. He doesn’t  _ know  _ how Sato is. 

_ “He is fine, ma’am,”  _ Mizoguchi provides.  _ “He is at the hospital in our garrison in Djibouti.”  _

Iwaizumi could cry. Thank God he didn’t die during transport. 

_ “That’s good,”  _ she hums.  _ “But you.”  _ She looks right at Iwaizumi again.  _ “What is your name?”  _

Iwaizumi racks his brain for the English words for his rank, mind muddled with thoughts of Sato.  _ “Petty Officer Third Class,  _ Hajime Iwaizumi.” 

“Hajime,” she tests the foreign name on her tongue.  _ “Thank you, _ Hajime.  _ You saved us all.”  _

_ “Yes,”  _ the husband adds.  _ “We surely would have all died without you.”  _

Mizoguchi and Irihata both eye him. So does the captain of the Dutch ship, but his expression looks more admirable. 

He just wants to leave. 

_ “Thank you,”  _ Iwaizumi manages to say, bent down in a bow.  _ “I am glad you are both alright.”  _

The woman nods and suddenly takes his hand.  _ “We will be in touch.”  _

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything, not quite sure if she meant that literally or not. 

_ “We will write letters,”  _ she clarifies.  _ “Is that okay?”  _

Oh. Not literally. Yeah, he could do letters, maybe that would be nice.  _ “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”  _

She looks at him as if he hung the moon and the stars, and so does the husband. Like he did something to deserve it. Like he  _ didn’t  _ kill a man in the process. 

“Return to formation, sailors,” Mizoguchi says when their little lauding ceremony is over. 

They all watch as the Dutch ship blows the horn and sails away. 

* * *

The hours pass by slowly while Iwaizumi waits for the inevitable—to be called into the Captain’s office to be placed in the brig or to be informed of his immediate dismissal. No bunkmate to keep him company or crack jokes. He might be getting mail, but he doesn’t go check. He gets his mess at weird hours so he won’t have to see anyone, won’t have to be stared at. 

Rank doesn’t even matter anymore to Iwaizumi. He’s the only one on the ship who’s ever killed someone on duty. 

Sato’s dress shoes are still with his clothes in his quarters. Iwaizumi shines them for him, fully aware that he may be dead currently, even if he didn’t die in transport, or that his leg is amputated. He ended up using a tourniquet on it to stop the bleeding, and that might cripple him for the rest of his life. 

And though shoe-shining helps occupy his time, more than anything, he thinks about Tooru to cope. He closes his eyes and sees his beautiful smile, hears his pealing laughter or the tease of  _ Iwa-chan _ , feels his hands down his back and on his chest. He misses him, now more than ever, but also has the strangest acute feeling like Tooru doesn’t miss him back. He pushes that thought aside to simply idealize him instead, craving everything about him. 

But, of course, Iwaizumi can’t hole up indefinitely with his own thoughts and Sato’s unused shoes. He goes to watch and does the requirements of his job. He lifts weights instead of sleeping. But he doesn’t go to the shooting range on the deck like he usually would to burn off stress or homesickness. 

It’s three days since the rescue mission when Lieutenant Commander Mizoguchi enters his quarters. He knocks—that’s new. 

“Sailor,” he says, ignoring how flustered Iwaizumi is from leaping up off the bed at attention. “Captain Irihata would like to speak with you.” 

“Yes, sir,” Iwaizumi says reflexively. “Do, I, uh. Do I need to wear dress blues, sir?” 

“No, sailor, come as you are.” 

He looks down at his coveralls—stained from when he was doing water testing this morning and got indicator dye on them. Wonderful. Great uniform for being discharged from the service. 

Iwaizumi follows Mizoguchi out into the corridor and they walk in silence, ascending the ladders towards topside. The ship gets cleaner and cleaner as they ascend decks, and Iwaizumi realizes he’s never actually been in the Captain’s office before. 

He walks through the bridge, surprised when a few officers salute him as he passes. Why they’re saluting him, he couldn’t know, considering he’s about to be fucking discharged. 

Iwaizumi steps into the office behind the Commander, saluting at attention without making eye contact with the Captain. 

“At ease, sailor,” Irihata says almost immediately. His face is smiling—warm and joyful. Does he really want him gone this soon? How great. 

Iwaizumi stands at ease, hands behind his back. 

“Petty Officer Iwaizumi, I’d like to discuss the latest mission with you.” He gestures to his desk. “Please, sit.” 

Iwaizumi glances errantly towards Mizoguchi, who still stands at attention at the door. He makes no comment to suggest his disapproval, so Iwaizumi sits across from the Captain at the desk, hands clasped and back straight. 

“Permission to speak freely, sir,” Iwaizumi says, immediately regretting it. 

“Granted,” Irihata says, though with some reservation. He cocks his head slightly. 

“If I am to be discharged, I would like to request to be able to visit Petty Officer Sato before I leave, sir,” Iwaizumi barks, trying to keep his voice even. 

“Discharged?” Irihata laughs. “Son, you’re getting a promotion.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything—he just kind of sits there with his mouth open, not quite believing what he’s hearing. He’s waiting for Mizoguchi to turn around and say sike or something. 

“Your performance on the rescue mission was admirable. You were in an unfortunate position, and yet, you managed to save both your comrade and your Commander simultaneously.” Irihata places his hands on the desk. “The Royal Netherlands Navy is awarding you the medal of the Bronze Lion. You’ll be receiving this and your cordons once we return to port.” 

No one says anything for a solid six seconds. 

“But, sir, I violated the Constitution and my oath of duty. I—I fired upon a foriegn citizen,” Iwaizumi stutters. “Respectfully, why am I being commended?” 

“You fired in self-defense during a policing manner. That is allowed under the Constitution and the UN’s regulations,” Irihata clarifies. “Iwaizumi, if you hadn’t acted so quickly, Lieutenant Commander Mizoguchi would be dead.” 

Another hush sits heavy in the room. Casualty. Casualties don’t happen in the JSDF. 

And yet, Sato. 

At this point, Iwaizumi starts feeling unsettling amounts of what he recognizes from high school psychology as cognitive dissonance. His training tells him casualties and combat in the JSDF aren’t real, and to suggest they would be is disrespectful to every officer who’s ever come before him. Let alone the fact that the Japanese citizenry would not accept the possibility of a casualty or armed combat. 

But here they are. Iwaizumi shot and killed a man. Sato will probably have a limp for the rest of his life if he isn’t dead or they haven’t amputated by now. 

“Sir, I meant to shoot his hand. I meant only to disarm him,” Iwaizumi clarifies, feeling guilt bubble in his stomach. “I never meant to—to engage with him in mortal combat.” 

“Iwaizumi, you don’t need to justify yourself.” Irihata frowns slightly. “I know why you may be feeling conflicted about this, and so Command is offering you some options on where to go next.” 

Iwaizumi feels the guilt lessen slightly—someone will guide him. Command knows. It’s going to be fine. 

“The first option that they would like you to consider most heavily is your promotion to Warrant Officer, effective immediately after your re-enlistment.” 

Iwaizumi gawks again. That’s the highest enlisted rank in the entire naval service. He’d practically have a commission with that. 

“You would continue your marksman training, with the possibility of becoming a sniper in the Special Boarding Unit,” Irihata elaborates. “Command thinks your skills as a marksman are too valuable to continue this posting or to continue your work as a medic. You would see real change and real combat with this promotion.” 

Iwaizumi lets this sink in. He couldn’t be a medic anymore. He’d just have to be behind the barrel of a gun as his job, doing the opposite of what he swore to do when he started off as a hospital corpsman. 

He doesn’t want that. It’s full of glory and all his family and friends back home would probably want that for him, but he doesn’t want that. He wants to go back to the old JMSDF, to be able to return home and do rescue missions with civilians or help out after earthquakes or hand out band-aids. 

He wants to go home to Tooru, mostly. 

“What is my other option, sir?” Iwaizumi gulps. 

“You could still receive your commendations, but your term of service would end in fourty-four days as promised. You could re-enlist and refuse the posting, but Command still wants you to continue your work as a marksman, not a medic.” 

“Sir, this is a great honor,” Iwaizumi prefaces. “But would I be allowed to finish my term of service and return to civilian life as planned previously?” 

Irihata seems surprised—why would he turn it down? “Yes. You could, and you could join the Reserves as well,” he says. His expression darkens. “However, being in the service as a career would protect you. You realize that in order to return to civilian life, you would have to keep all information about this mission in secrecy. It has all been classified. Your benefits upon leaving would be better than most enlisted men, but would still be minimal.” 

Oh. So, they’re manipulating him. They’re afraid for him to return to civilian life. He’s a walking weapon and would be better suited for permanent prison—“protection”—within the military. No Argentina honeymoon. No normalcy. Just him and his sidearm. 

No. He’s not doing that. He’d stay completely shut up for his entire life in exchange for Tooru. 

“Sir. I would like to carry out the rest of my term and fulfill my oath of duty, but then return home.” Iwaizumi straightens his back even further, until his spine pops. “I am very thankful for these commendations. But, respectfully, I would like to return to civilian life. I do not want to be a marksman.” 

Irihata sighs like Iwaizumi just turned down the offer of a lifetime, which he might have just done. “As you wish, Iwaizumi. You may carry out the rest of your term, but you will be sworn to secrecy. As the public knows it, we only performed an assist with the Royal Netherlands Navy to arrest the pirates. Revealing the...finer points of this mission to anyone outside the service would bring shame and turmoil to our ranks. You understand this?” 

“Yes, sir. I understand.” 

“Then all is well.” Irihata smiles once more—everything is fine and there’s no censorship going on. 

“Respectfully, sir, may I make a request?” 

“Go ahead.” 

Iwaizumi takes a breath. “Request permission to take my leave that I have saved up when we return to port. I’d like to spend time with Petty Officer Sato while he recovers.” 

“Granted. How many days of leave would you like?” 

“I have six earned, sir.” 

“I’ve heard he will be shipped home in two weeks. You may take that time off to spend as you choose.” Irihata smiles grimly. “Anything else, sailor?” 

That was actually a very generous offer. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.” 

He stands; Iwaizumi stands with him. “If that will be all, then you are dismissed. Captain Visser and I will meet you on the mainland during your leave for your medal ceremony.” 

“Yes, sir.” He salutes, examining Irihata’s face one more time. He looks—he looks  _ frustrated _ , but Iwaizumi doesn’t think it’s actually aimed at him. Maybe he’s sympathetic. Maybe Irihata’s only a symptom of the problem, and maybe he isn’t really trying to manipulate Iwaizumi. 

Regardless, Iwaizumi just wants to go home now. 

Mizoguchi opens the door for him and they file out of the bridge. All the bridge officers salute now—even the First Officer and the XO. 

They all know what Iwaizumi did, and they all know what Iwaizumi has to do. 

The trek back to his quarters is less tense than earlier, now that he knows he’s not facing disciplinary action, but it’s a different kind of tenseness. Tenseness of anticipation for what returning home will be like, how Sato’s doing, if Iwaizumi’s ever going to get over this, the future of the mission…

Once they come to a stop in front of Iwaizumi and Sato’s quarters, Mizoguchi says, “Look, sailor…” 

For once, he seems to come up empty. He takes off his cap, running a hand through his blonde hair. 

“I owe you my life, Iwaizumi. I wanted to thank you. I can’t ever repay that.” 

Something in Iwaizumi breaks seeing his commanding officer vulnerable. “Uh. It wasn’t really me. Sato was the one who told me that the pirate had a revolver.” 

“But you pulled the trigger and saved me. If I had died, you would have had to take command  _ while _ you were saving Sato’s life, which probably would have caused the mission to fail. You made a hard decision in a short amount of time,” Mizoguchi persists. “You did something most men can’t do, and that’s admirable. I know you don’t feel good about what happened, especially considering, well, the public and the government’s position on what we can and can’t do in uniform. But you deserve the commendation, and you sure as hell deserve more than what the government’s going to give you. If they tried to box me in and took away my rating to force me to be a marksman after I  _ saved _ all my comrades, I’d be pissed.” 

Iwaizumi stays quiet. These are rare sympathetic words and he’d be a dumbass to interrupt him.

“All I’m saying is you deserve more than you’re getting. Don’t tell the Captain that, though.” The edge of intimidation is back. 

“No, sir,” Iwaizumi reassures. 

“That aside, I—” He stops mid-sentence. “I’m your commanding officer. I advocate for you. I’ll do whatever I can to repay you for what you did for me. I know things like pensions, or...I dunno, counseling, if you want it, won’t make up for anything, but it’s the least I can do to try and get them for you.” 

Pension?  _ What?  _ “Sir, I’m a three-year enlisted man, I don’t deserve—” 

He cuts him off. “Don’t give me that ‘enlisted’ bullshit, you did more than any of those officers on the bridge ever will. So did Sato. And you both have families, I’ve heard. You’ll be compensated accordingly.” 

“I...I’m not sure what to say. Thank you, sir.” 

“Don’t thank me. What else can I do for you right now?” 

Iwaizumi chews the inside of his cheek. “Is there any way you could tell me what will happen to Sato?” 

“Honorable discharge, but he only had a couple weeks left in his service anyways. They’re saying he got hurt in crossfire but wasn’t directly involved. He’ll be receiving full retirement benefits like he had a commission, I’ll see to it. The Dutch navy’s giving him that medal you’re getting, too.” 

“How is he? Do you have any idea of how he is medically? Did they have to amputate?” Iwaizumi starts getting hyped up. “I’m—I’m sorry for speaking so freely, sir, I just—” 

Mizoguchi holds up a hand. “You’re fine. I know you guys are buddies. I sent in an inquiry this morning to see how he was doing, but last I heard, they were able to save his leg function. I don’t really know the jargon like you might, but it sounds like he’s gonna be okay.” 

“Oh. Okay, good, thank you,” Iwaizumi breathes out, pure relief flooding his body. At least he was able to fix him up slightly. “Um, what about Tanabe and Hayashi?” 

“Shaken, but they’ll be okay, too. It was my fault for putting them on that mission. They’ve both told me they’d like to complete their service terms.” 

“That’s good,” Iwaizumi murmurs. Good. He didn’t create problems for anyone else. 

“Are you alright, sailor? You look about to pass out,” Mizoguchi murmurs. “I’ll let you go, then, that was all I wanted to say. I think.” 

He starts to walk away. Iwaizumi doesn’t dare to move a muscle as his boots thump on the concrete and he snaps around. 

Mizoguchi clenches his fist and says, “Y’know what, fuck this, we’re both off-duty, do you want a drink? I still have some of the cognac the French brought over.” 

And Iwaizumi wants to cry, wants to say  _ no, that was something only Sato and I did _ , but he doesn’t, because how can he stop life from moving on?

He grins and bears it instead. “Sure, sir.” 

* * *

“You—you had cognac with  _ Mizoguchi? _ ” Sato laughs, tears coming to his eyes. “Oh my God. Are we talking about the same guy?” 

Iwaizumi has to laugh, too. It’s so nice to be with his bunkmate again, even after only four days apart. Four very stressful days, though. “Yup. And he got pretty drunk, too. We bonded. Did you know he played volleyball in high school?” 

“What is it with  _ intense people _ and volleyball?” Sato continues laughing, rubbing the tears away from his eyes with the hand that didn’t have an IV in it. “Jeez. Man, it is so good to have you back, I nearly died of boredom.” 

“Same,” Iwaizumi laments, resting his chin on his arms as he folds over Sato’s hospital bed. “Four days in an empty bunk was hell.” 

“They tell you about all the shit we gotta do about this mission?” Sato sighs. “God. Makes me seem dumb that I got in the middle of  _ crossfire. _ ” 

“But we’re both getting those medals, though.” 

“Right, right, right, but what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Frame it?” 

“Isn’t that what most people do?” Iwaizumi shrugs. “I dunno. My parents are gonna be psyched to hear about it.” 

“Ah, yeah. Chiasa didn’t care so much, but I guess it made her sorta happy. Like this wasn’t all for nothing.” 

“How’s she taking…” Iwaizumi gestures up and down Sato’s leg—they had performed surgery and it was wrapped tight in a brace. He’s supposed to stay in the hospital for another day while he’s still on painkillers and will definitely have to go home on crutches, if not a wheelchair. 

Sato winces. “Not pleased. But I told her about that pension they’re giving me and that made it better.” He grins cheekily. “You know what’s funny? Like, the way we were positioned there, the guy who shot me was probably aiming for my gut or something. But he was just a  _ terrible fucking shot _ .” 

Iwaizumi can’t help himself—he laughs, because how else is he supposed to handle it? “Jesus, Sato.” 

“It’s true! C’mon, what was the strategic purpose of shooting me in the  _ leg  _ if he was trying to kill Mizoguchi? It doesn’t add up. The universe screwed him over to let me live. So, uh. Thanks, universe.” 

That could have been really poignant, but Sato is still laughing, which just makes it seem dumb. It was all  _ so dumb.  _ Iwaizumi gets caught laughing, not holding it back because he’ll hang onto any scrap of enjoyment he can get right now.

Once they calm down, Iwaizumi scratches the back of his head. “Do you know…” 

Sato snorts and ruffles Iwaizumi’s hair. “Iwaizumi, c’mon. Just say what you’re gonna say. It’s me you’re talking to, not Mizoguchi.” 

Iwaizumi brushes him off, because it feels wrong to let him keep petting his hair. “Right, right. Do you know what you’re gonna do when you get home? Like, in terms of a job and all that?” 

His face twists up. “Ugh. Well, the pension might be enough to live off of? But I’m...well, this is gonna sound crazy.” 

“Just say what you’re gonna say,” Iwaizumi quotes, grinning like a bastard. 

Sato rolls his eyes. “You ass. I’m thinking about starting a charter boat business back home. Like, for tourists. No one would care if I had a limp, I’d get to fish with my own rod and reel all day, and I’d get to be on the water without worrying about rules.” 

“That doesn’t sound crazy. That sounds...really nice, actually. Peaceful,” Iwaizumi murmurs. 

“Yeah, I think so too.” Sato smiles, then breaks down into snorts again. “I have to find the money to buy a better boat than the one I got right now, though.”    
  


“Oh, yeah, I forgot, your boat’s a piece of shit.” 

“Screw you! Only I’m allowed to make fun of her!” Sato continues on and on with the banter, like everything’s normal.

Maybe everything  _ is  _ normal. 

“Are you gonna take me out one day?” Iwaizumi asks. 

“Depends on if you’ll pay,” Sato retorts. “And if it turns out you suck at fishing—which I’m sure you do, just look at you, young fucker—then you’re not allowed on my boat. Bad luck.” 

Iwaizumi swats his shoulder. “I’ll have you know, I am an excellent fisherman. I’m in the fucking Navy.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Mm-hm.” 

Sato seems like he’s trying to make a quip, but he’s getting more drowsy by the minute. “Don’t believe it,” he settles on. 

Iwaizumi takes ahold of his hand and squeezes it. “I should let you get some rest. We’ve been going on for, what, four hours now? And it’s almost sundown.” 

“No…” he whines. “Don’t leave me here alone, it’s boring and the nurses aren’t hot.” 

Iwaizumi gives in, grinning. “Okay, fine. Ten more minutes.” 

They just sit there for a moment, glad they’re both alive. 

“Oh. Y’know the pregnant Dutch lady you saved? She sent me a letter,” Iwaizumi perks up. “Guess what she told me.” 

Sato cocks his head, genuinely curious. “What?” 

“She’s naming her kid after us. Their middle name is gonna be Sato-Hajime.” 

“No shit!” Sato grins—beams, actually. “No shit, really?”

Iaizumi genuinely smiles. That was a wonderful note to receive. “No shit. I gave her your contact info. She said she’d send pictures once the kid is born.” 

“Oh, man, that’s so cool. Wow.” Sato continues his face-splitting smile. “Wow. Never thought there’d be a kid with my name on it.” 

“I know, right?” Iwaizumi sighs, content and tired from all his laughter. 

Sato lands a hand in his hair again. “Your term’s almost up. What are you and Tooru gonna do?” 

Iwaizumi yawns. Long day. “He’s talking about an ‘enlistment honeymoon’ or something like that. I’m going to Argentina with him—” 

He stops himself when Sato smiles knowingly.

Oh, shit. 

“She. She, sorry, I meant she and her, Tooru’s a girl, duh,” Iwaizumi corrects. His face burns. Great, now he’s fucked up this friendship while he’s got a bullethole in his leg. 

“Iwaizumi. Hey, look at me.” 

Iwaizumi buries his face in the bed, refusing to look. 

“Iwaizumi, I knew you were gay,” Sato says softly. “The little stories you two made up were fun, and I could tell he was having fun making them, so I didn’t say anything. Also, I just don’t give a shit.” 

Iwaizumi finally looks up. “You don’t?” 

“Nah, man. Doesn’t change anything about you. And I don’t believe in the whole ‘infighting’ bullshit. You’re a sailor like me and a damn good one at that, and the fact that you got a boyfriend makes no difference.” Sato smiles reassuringly. “But now I can make gay jokes.” 

“Oh?” Iwaizumi chuckles, still giddy from the adrenaline in his body.

“Yeah, ‘enlistment honeymoon?’ Gay. That’s gay,” Sato croons, loose-lipped. 

“Fuck you,” Iwaizumi laughs, now punching his shoulder. “How’d you know?” 

“That you were gay?” Sato giggles. “Get this. You talk in your sleep, but only when you have wet dreams.”

“No…” Iwaizumi moans. 

“Yes. You had one  _ the first night on the ship, _ ” Sato is now roaring. 

Iwaizumi could cry. “No, I remember being so ashamed about it...you  _ heard _ ?” 

“Every word. You like it in the ass, huh? That’s gay.” 

Iwaizumi breaks down into laughter again. It was so ridiculous. The whole thing. 

“God,” Sato’s laughs slowly dwindle. “It’s been an honor serving with you. I love you, man.” 

Iwaizumi moves to say something sweet and wholesome, then bursts into laughter again. “Y’know what I say to that, Sato?” 

“What, Iwaizumi?” 

“That’s fuckin’ gay.” 

* * *

They get their medals and cordons the next week, together, like they requested. They pose for photos in their dress blues while holding each other by the waist so Sato’s crutches don’t have to be visible.

It’s a good picture, even if there’s a hint of melancholy to the whole thing. 

Iwaizumi makes a few copies of it. 

* * *

_ Dear Mom,  _

_ By now, you’ve probably gotten a letter from my commanding officer about what all’s happened recently, but here’s me and my bunkmate getting our Netherlands Royal Navy Bronze Lions, plus our cordons. He’ll be leaving in a few days to go back home to Aomori.  _

_ I only have a few weeks left of service. I hope Tooru hasn’t been bothering you too much about organizing things—I know he’s very excited. I’m looking forward to seeing everyone very soon. Sorry for the short note; I’m actually on leave right now. Will send more info later once I know more about my discharge! _

_ Love,  _

_ Hajime _

* * *

Sato goes back home to his boat, like he should. Iwaizumi goes back to the Onami, like he should. The days are long and boring, especially because he refuses to touch guns unless ordered to. But people smile at him. The younger men salute him—even the officers. He spends a lot of time with Hayashi and Tanabe, telling them old stories of him and Sato and boring them with tales of his volleyball glory days. They’re cute and green and remind Iwaizumi a lot of his “triplets” at home. 

But, mostly, Iwaizumi has started to cling to Tooru, even just through a computer screen. He bribes officers for phones and laptops when the ship comes into areas with internet. 

“Good morning, Hajime!” Tooru greets, loud and happy. He’s got a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, evidently getting ready for his day. “How are you?” 

“I’m fine. How are you?” 

“Wonderful, now that you’ve called!” He beams, despite toothpaste all over his mouth. 

_ Cute. He’s so cute. _

Iwaizumi rubs the growing end-of-the-day stubble on his chin. “You heading to practice right now?” 

“Mm-hm!” He nods and rinses his mouth out, moving on to wash his face. “Game day tonight!” 

“Who are you playing?” 

His face twists up in a scowl. “Bolívar Voley.” 

Kiki yowls in the background.

“I know, Kiki-chan, we don’t like them,” Oikawa croons, picking her up and shoving her bewildered face into the camera frame. “Say hi to Papa, Kiki-chan.” 

“Hello, Kiki, good morning.” Iwaizumi smiles at the cat, who only looks at him with mild interest. Iwaizumi flips his focus back to Oikawa. “You’ll beat ‘em, you always do.” 

He sighs as he sets the cat down. “I dunno, babe. Today feels off somehow.” 

“How so? Is it your knee?” Iwaizumi immediately jumps to that conclusion.  _ Suspicious. Overprotective.  _ At least he can recognize these traits in himself now. 

Oikawa shakes his head. “Nope, my knee’s okay. I’m not sure. Something’s just...not right.” 

Iwaizumi nods. “I know what you mean.”  _ Every day feels this way for me since I killed that man.  _

“But now that you called me, we can’t possibly lose. What do you say, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa prompts and chucks off his sleep t-shirt, flexing his abs and wiggling his eyebrows. 

“I say good luck,” Iwaizumi says. “Put a shirt on. No porn on the ship, remember?” 

“So you admit I’m attractive?” 

_ More than attractive. God-like.  _ “Yes, of course I do.” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. 

“Easy, Iwa-chan,” he purrs. He takes his phone with him, setting it on his dresser as he changes into his warm-up. “How’s pirate killing going?” 

Iwaizumi freezes. How did he—

Wait. The running joke. He makes that joke based on irony, because he thinks the JMSDF doesn’t do things like kill foreign nationals. He continues it to piss Iwaizumi off. It’s a joke. He doesn’t know.

Iwaizumi looks around him—his quarters are empty and the door is shut. His calls are definitely monitored, though. 

“...Hajime? You got kinda pale, are you okay?” 

“Tooru, I need you to never tell that joke again, okay? You know that’s not what the JMSDF does.” Iwaizumi is firm, but his voice shakes and Oikawa can definitely tell. “You know that’s not what I do.” 

“Um, okay? If you say so?” Oikawa tosses his jacket over his shoulder and holds the phone next to his face, eyebrows squinched in concern. “Is...um, everything alright?” 

“Yes. Everything is f-f-fine. Fine,” Iwaizumi stutters like he’s still eight years old. Goddamn speech impediment coming out when he’s nervous. “Tell me about the players on Bolívar Voley.” 

“Uh. Are you sure we should be talking about volleyball right now? You just stuttered, something’s really bothering you.” 

“Please talk to me about volleyball,” Iwaizumi practically begs. His heart is thumping out of his chest and he reaches down to his hip for his sidearm—oh. It’s not there. Good.

“Okay!” Oikawa lights up, putting on a nice show for Iwaizumi. “Well, the setter is  _ just  _ like Tobio-chan, and that is just  _ infuriating _ . Down to his black hair and long-ass fingers and perfect cuticles and  _ everything…” _

Oikawa continues rambling about the problem he finds most important in his life currently, but Iwaizumi doesn’t pay attention. 

* * *

The end of JMSDF Petty Officer Third Class Hajime Iwaizumi, Hospital Corpsman’s term comes quicker than he thought. Three years, give or take a few weeks due to travel times and things to sort out in Djibouti. It doesn’t feel like three years have passed. The majority of his service he spent putting around Japanese waters and helping out with disaster relief when he was called to do so; but, it feels like he spent the whole time on the Onami killing pirates. He decided to join the Reserves, too, once he was signing his discharge papers, just because he could use the money and the routine and Mizoguchi encouraged him to do it. He’s not  _ done  _ done, but he  _ is _ done with the Gulf of Aden. 

Despite all of it, here he is. In just under a day, he’s flown from Djibouti to Istanbul all the way to Tokyo. He’s drunk at least four different kinds of tap water along the way. The hospital corpsman in him who used to test water quality all day cringes. 

To pass the time, he wrote letters to Hayashi and Tanabe and, relishing in having a phone that kept cell signal all the time, texted back and forth with Sato. But he couldn’t bring himself to text Tooru or his mother or any of his family until he stood outside Customs, boots officially on Japanese ground. His navy fatigues stand out in the crowd—people watch him as he taps on his phone. 

**_AAAAAAA YOUR FLIGHT JUST SAID ARRIVED ON THE BOARD AAAAA IWA-CHAN I’M OUTSIDE SECURITY WAITING FOR YOU !!!!!!!!_ ** **_(〃＾▽＾〃)_ **

**_Okay give me a sec wait there. I have fatigues on so you should be able to point me out pretty well_ **

**_I COULD NEVER MISS YOUR FACE IN A CROWD!!!!_ **

**_IWA-CHAN IS HOMEEEEE!!!!!_ **

**_I GET TO SEE YOU IN YOUR UNIFORM_ ** **_(*¯ ³¯*)♡ SO EXCITING_ **

Iwaizumi laughs. Here comes the “man in uniform” jokes. He makes his way towards the exit, boots thumping on the tile as he tries not to get lost in the crowd. Jeez, this shouldn’t even be difficult, moving through the Onami was really confusing. He should be better than getting lost in an airport. 

Anyway, uh. That’s kinda embarrassing. Civilian life. 

He just ends up following the stream of people out. Most everyone was going to baggage claim, but Iwaizumi literally has all his life’s possessions in his backpack and duffle bag securely at his side. 

He looks up and out and spots a head of fluffy brown hair. The same one that he’s only seen through pictures or dreams for the last three years. 

Iwaizumi breaks into a sprint. People make way for him, a few making concerned noises—it probably looked suspicious while he had his fatigues on—but he runs, runs, runs, turning the corner and heaving like a madman, waiting for Oikawa to turn around. He’s got his press conference suit on. 

_ Cute.  _ He dressed up for him. 

Oikawa’s eyes meet his, unfocused for a few moments until complete recognition floods his face. He starts sprinting, too, faster than Iwaizumi even in his designer shoes. 

Iwaizumi tosses his bags down, throws his cap off, and meets Oikawa with open arms. Oikawa launches himself at him, and suddenly they’re embracing—Iwaizumi is holding Oikawa, his long legs wrapped around Iwaizumi’s waist tightly. He’s gotten heavier, tight and sinewy from being an Olympian. 

“ _ Hajime _ ,” he whispers into his ear. Iwaizumi’s neck is wet with tears. 

“Tooru. Tooru, I missed you so much,” he whispers back, holding him tighter and letting tears run down his face. “Tooru.” 

“You’re here. You’re finally here,” Tooru murmurs. 

“I’m here.” Iwaizumi tucks his head in and kisses Oikawa right on the edge of his collared shirt where the general public couldn’t see. “I love you.” 

“I love you,” Oikawa hums, kissing him in the same spot. “You’ve gotten really beefy.” 

Iwaizumi pulls back and drops Oikawa abruptly. “Okay, down now.” 

Oikawa stumbles in his Italian leather shoes and feigns pain, gasping and clutching his chest. “Iwa-chan, that was a compliment! So mean! I haven’t seen you in so long!” 

“Deal with it, babe.” Iwaizumi grins and clutches Oikawa by the waist, letting him lead him to his family. He doesn’t care if anyone’s watching—he needs to hold him close, feel his warmth. There are still tears on both their faces, and they get caught on Oikawa’s shining dimples.

_ Cute _ .

Oikawa squeezes his waist in return. “Are you ready to see everyone, or should we hang back? They’re out by the parking garage.”

Iwaizumi chuckles. “You wanted to come out to see me first?”

“Uh, yeah,  _ duh _ ,” Oikawa says. “Look, look, they can wait another five minutes, nobody’s in that hallway, let’s go—“

Iwaizumi’s got him pinned against the empty hallway wall before he can finish, kissing him senseless. They continue for  _ several minutes.  _

Oikawa grabs his left hand in fervor and slides a thin gold band over the ring finger. “Marry me,” he says breathlessly. “Iwaizumi Hajime, will you marry me?”

Iwaizumi laughs, loud and bright, and grips the back of Oikawa’s neck with his ring-adorned hand. “What, like we weren’t married this whole time?” 

Oikawa grabs the collar of his uniform and goes back to kissing as new tears track down their cheeks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _fun facts:_  
>  \- oikawa bought that press conference suit when he first moved to argentina. the rent was late for the next two months as a result, but it's a small price to pay for fashion  
> \- iwaizumi isn't a good fisherman. sato is correct. but he genuinely believes he is, so shh, nobody tell him otherwise.  
> \- mizoguchi probably keeps a teddy bear in his officer's quarters i don't make the rules  
> \- the ring oikawa gives iwaizumi? he bought that as soon as paid off the suit money. yeah, that made the rent late again. yeah, he's been holding onto it for three years, and yeah, he would try it on when he got lonely, even though it was three sizes too big. 
> 
> anyways, hello, did you drink some water today? no? go drink some water. love you. comments/questions/suggestions/salutations? let me know! see you next wednesday!


	3. cryin' all alone under the stands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> disconnect _/ˌdiskəˈnekt/_ : something Iwaizumi Hajime (21) (Petty Officer Third Class Hospital Corpsman And Marksman, Reservist) feels acutely

They all end up eating a homecoming dinner at Iwaizumi’s old house—Oikawa, Hanamaki, Matsukawa, Kindaichi, Kunimi, Kageyama, and his parents, of course. People from the neighborhood stop by to say hello and comment on how much he’s grown or how brave he is or to thank him for his service to the country. Iwaizumi, all nerves, didn’t think he would be able to stomach much of anything, but he eats heartily. His mother makes enough to feed the entire Onami crew and everyone seems to praise his appetite for some reason. 

He’s got the distinct feeling that they’re waiting for him to act fucked up or traumatized. His parents walk on eggshells. Hanamaki and Matsukawa aren’t as playfully annoying as usual. Kindaichi, Kunimi, and Kageyama are quiet for the most part. Oikawa is the only one who’s acting normal, probably because this is also  _ his  _ homecoming, and he’s all hyped up about the engagement. 

But Iwaizumi isn't acting traumatized, or at least he doesn’t feel like it. He feels...really happy, in all honesty, and doesn’t mind showing people his dog tags or his medals and cordons, or answering questions about ship life or Africa life or just questions in general. He thought he would be upset by it all, but he isn’t. It’s nice to be back home with a family that loves him. 

It’s nice until it suddenly isn’t. It’s nearing 2230 hours, the adults are sharing drinks on the couch, and Kunimi is fighting the sandman. Kageyama, however, is alert as ever. Constipated-looking, if Iwaizumi had to put a finger on it. 

“Hajime, Kageyama-kun has an exciting announcement he’d like to share,” his mother says after amicable conversation about futures and university and wife-finding. 

(She sees the new ring on Iwaizumi’s hand—Oikawa is practically on his lap, fiddling with the ring and kissing it every few minutes—but old habits die hard, especially when she’s inquiring with the other boys.)

“Oh?” Iwaizumi quirks an eyebrow to Kageyama, whose lips are practically trembling as he musters the courage to speak. Everyone perks up to listen except for the other third-year boys and Iwaizumi can tell that’s only making it worse. 

“I’ve decided to enlist in the JMSDF,” he says finally, looking stoic but triumphant with his shining blue eyes. 

For a flash, he sees Hayashi or Tanabe in him, on the deck of the yacht, puking over the side of the boat as Sato’s blood mixes with the pirate’s. 

Everybody claps for Kageyama. Iwaizumi’s father shakes his hand. Iwaizumi stays quiet, unsure of how to open his mouth without the words  _ no, you can’t  _ spilling out. 

Oikawa’s eyes drill into him. He knows Iwaizumi isn’t pleased at this news. 

“Wow, Kageyama,” Iwaizumi forces a smile, knowing everyone is staring at him, gauging his reaction. He stands up and offers him a hand, pulling him off the couch and leading him to the back door. “Have you started filling out your enlistment paperwork yet? Let’s talk for a minute.” 

No one questions why he’s taken him out—yet—except Kageyama. Once Iwaizumi slides the door as shut as possible (not as secure as the doors they had on the Onami, maybe he could fix it before he leaves for Argentina), he says, “Is everything okay, Iwaizumi-san?” 

Iwaizumi leans his hands against the railing, shivering slightly in the early-spring evening air. He had taken his fatigue overcoat off so he’s only in his navy blue undershirt. “Promise me you won’t take this personally when I say this to you, Kageyama.” 

He bristles but nods. 

“You can’t enlist.” 

He bristles even more. “I can handle it—”

“No, that’s not what I said. I know you can. I think you’d make a great sailor,” Iwaizumi clarifies. He’s never felt something so black and white in his mind. He won’t let Kageyama enlist. “I can’t, in good conscience, let you join up.” 

“Why?” He protests, almost angry. 

“Because the JSDF is not what you think it is,” Iwaizumi says quickly, his voice surprisingly steely. He tones it down. “Look, I don’t...I don’t regret enlisting, and I’m staying in the Reserves, but I experienced things on some missions that I don’t want you to experience. That I don’t want  _ anyone  _ I love to experience.” 

“What do you mean?” Kageyama questions, brow furrowed. “It’s not like you went into combat.” 

He probably doesn’t mean it in a snide way, but it certainly comes off like that. The corners of his lips twitch in uncertain smugness.

Iwaizumi sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. How can he say this without spilling the secret? “Kageyama, do you know why we keep pirates outside of the Gulf of Aden?” 

“Because they hijack ships and take people for ransom,” he replies, sharp and know-it-all. 

“Do you know  _ how  _ pirates take people for ransom?” 

Kageyama pauses. “...I dunno, intimidation? Threats?” 

“And what do you think happens to sailors when we try to prevent this from happening? What do you think happens to sailors when we try to rescue people?” Iwaizumi feels his voice gradually increasing in volume. 

Kageyama stays quiet. His eyes have gotten wide,  _ scared _ , and Iwaizumi realizes he’s practically cornered him on the back deck unintentionally. 

Or maybe some part of him meant it. Maybe he  _ was  _ dangerous, too dangerous for civilian life. Maybe he was a killing machine who needed to join the Special Boarding Unit for everyone’s safety. 

Iwaizumi backs off as soon as he realizes this. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to—” 

“It’s alright,” Kageyama practically squeaks. 

“You...there’s no reason you would know this when you decided to enlist. I didn’t. No one really knows until they see it.” Iwaizumi takes deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. “Combat is a term that you shouldn’t throw around lightly, because combat is  _ different _ than what you think it is. Look, if you decide to enlist, I can’t stop you, and I’ll support you with everything I can. But I  _ implore  _ you. Shit, Kageyama, I am  _ begging  _ you. Don’t enlist. I never want you to be put in...positions I was put in.” 

The two of them just kinda stand there, hyperaware of the experiential divide between them. 

“Did you experience combat, Iwaizumi-san?” Kageyama asks lowly, quietly. 

Iwaizumi looks him dead in the eyes. “That information is classified.” 

“So, yes?” 

“I said it was classified, Kageyama, don’t be a bitch about it,” he growls. 

Kageyama jumps back again. Too harsh. He’s not in the service, he can’t talk to him that way. 

Iwaizumi grinds his hand on the railing, feeling splinters poking his palm. “I’m sorry, Kageyama, I really am, but I can’t tell you anything more than that. Either enlist and find out, or don’t enlist and you’ll never have to know. You’ll never have to carry the burden of knowing.” 

He shrinks. “So...you don’t think I should sign the papers?” 

“No, Kageyama,” Iwaizumi murmurs. “I don’t think you should. I’ll support you no matter what you decide, but I don’t think you should. I...wish I had somebody to tell me this when I enlisted.” 

“I just want to do something productive. I know I don’t want to go to college, and I want to help my country, and everyone at career counseling said I should enlist like you,” Kageyama mutters, surprisingly vulnerable. “I thought—thought it was a good decision, and everybody’s praised me for it.” 

“I know,” Iwaizumi says. “It was the same when I enlisted.” 

He twists his fingers together. “And you...looked really cool and brave. We all looked up to you. We were really proud to be your kouhai.” 

Iwaizumi finds the words shrivel up and die on his tongue. Part of it was  _ personal _ . Kageyama wanted to join because Iwaizumi had done it. 

To be fair, part of it was personal for Iwaizumi, too. He joined partly because it was a clear source of direction, partly to serve the country, partly for some adventure. The regular reasons. But, he also knew his parents didn’t approve of how he and Oikawa were  _ definitely  _ closer than most childhood friends, and for some reason, he thought joining the military would make them see him as more masculine. And it kinda worked, too, which was the worst thing about it. His parents decided that enlisting was a bigger deal than coming out, and now they don’t care as much that he’s engaged at twenty-one years old to the only person he’s ever kissed. 

So, yeah, Iwaizumi understands the whole  _ personal  _ thing. How can you make the decision to enlist without it being personal?

Iwaizumi holds out his arms, unsure of how else to handle the situation. “C’mere.” 

Kageyama leans into the hug, slightly awkward but warm and trusting regardless. 

“There are other ways to serve your country and be brave and cool. The military is not the only way.” 

Kageyama leans a little further into the hug and sniffs quietly. “The recruiter guy was so convincing, though.” 

“I know. I know. They’re really desperate for more young people.” Iwaizumi rubs his back, then pulls away and grasps him by the shoulders. “Did you have any idea what rating you were aiming for?” 

“Rating…?” he questions, eyes wide and bewildered. 

“Uh. Your job. Like, what you wanted to do while you served.” 

He opens his mouth and says the softest thing yet. “I was thinking about being a hospital corpsman.”

“Great. Good. Because you don’t have to be in the service to do that,” Iwaizumi says, grinning. “Hey. How would you feel about being an EMT, huh? That’s what I’m about to do. You’d need to go to a training school for a little while to learn how it works, but then you’d be set. No college. And you’d be serving your country in a meaningful and...y’know,  _ tangible  _ way.” 

Kageyama looks at him as if he forgot civilians could be medics, too. 

“I don’t mean to tell you what to do, Kageyama. You’re grown now. You can do whatever you like. But I’d like you to think about all these options, okay? Think about enlisting, too. I’m just asking you to consider everything.” 

He nods. 

“Okay.” Iwaizumi claps his shoulder. “Let’s get back to the party, huh? You can have some of my beer.” 

* * *

“Oh, Kiki, jeez, warn a guy,” Iwaizumi grunts under his breath as she hops directly onto his lap under the table and purrs like a diesel engine. He shifts his phone in his hand to speak more directly into the mic. “No, yeah, that sounds great.” 

_ “So, after doing some research with your resume—which is very impressive, by the way—I think you could get the EMT-A certification without any extra training. Can you start IVs and intubate?”  _

“Yes, sir.” He could do way more than that—he could do intraosseous infusions, could intubate with only an airway and a flashlight, and he’s assisted on some minor surgeries on the Onami. But now’s not the time to brag. He’d have plenty of time to show his skill on duty. 

_ “Great, that already puts you ahead. I know most of you military medics—especially guys like you who worked with foreigners—know a bunch about trauma. You may need brushing up for the cert exam on med-surg things and dosage calculations, or policies on extrication or comms and ops, but everything should be set for when you return. Daichi will be in touch with you about some logistical stuff.”  _

“Thank you so much, Chief Ukai.” 

_ “Absolutely. Welcome to the team.”  _

The line clicks off. He’s not unemployed. Awesome. His veteran career counselor hooked him up with a station in Sendai that was looking for new medics, and they had welcomed him with open arms despite the fact that Iwaizumi was going to spend another month in Argentina. The captain had even been emailing him about finding apartments in the area. It was honestly baffling just how supportive people were.

It has been just under three weeks of total and complete bliss since his discharge. San Juan is beautiful and Tooru has shown him practically every corner of it. National parks. Windsurfing. Wine tasting.  _ Legal gay marriage,  _ even though one of them is a foreigner. Oikawa went to practice when he needed to and Iwaizumi spent the time away from him studying for his EMT-A certification. All the puzzle pieces were fitting together. It was all almost too good to be true.

...Which is why Iwaizumi is scared about marrying Tooru. The date they signed up for at the civil office was only a week and a half away. _He_ was thrilled and _he_ wasn’t getting cold feet—not in the least—but he was worried about Tooru not actually wanting him. 

Most of the time, people don’t like marrying murderers. There’s that. Iwaizumi is a vessel of bloody secrets that his commanding officers couldn’t even handle. Additionally, Iwaizumi is wondering if, after they marry, he’ll ever be able to leave San Juan. He’s gotten so attached, almost too clingy, to Tooru, and the fact that he’ll have to leave one day is heavy in Iwaizumi’s gut. 

He worries a lot about virtually everything. He didn’t used to do that before serving. 

“ _ Ya llegué, Iwacito _ !” The front door to their apartment breezes open, letting in the warm early-summer air. Oikawa looks so effortlessly charming even with his hair wet from the post-practice shower, only wearing a muscle tank and those four-inch-seam gym shorts that make Iwaizumi lose his mind. “I’m home!” 

“Welcome back,” Iwaizumi says, smiling and standing up from the kitchen table. He kisses him sweetly. “How was practice?” 

“Oh, fine, y’know! Just another day in paradise!” He says, still smiling brilliantly. “I got takeout, is that okay?” 

“Takeout’s perfect.” He grabs the bags from his hands, setting them on the kitchen counter. “I just got off the phone with the Chief at Sendai EMS.” 

Oikawa gasps, expectant. “And?” 

Iwaizumi grins smugly. “I got the job.” 

“Ah! Yay! I’m so proud of you, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa jumps up and down, tugging at Iwaizumi’s hands. “Why don’t we celebrate? There’s that wine in the fridge.” 

“As if we don’t have that wine every night,” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and grabs two glasses from the drying rack, setting them down next to the takeout boxes. He busies himself with organizing the food at the kitchen table. Oikawa always buys so much more food than they need, still adjusting to having to share his apartment. Choripán, empanadas, a giant tub of chimichurri, dulche de leche—how does he possibly stay in Olympian shape eating like this?

Iwaizumi pauses when the cadence of Oikawa’s footsteps sounds...off. He had gotten good at identifying footstep sounds and this is not Oikawa’s usual cadence. 

He flips around just as Oikawa comes back, wine in hand. “Is your knee bothering you? I can hear you favoring it.” 

Oikawa shrugs. “Just a bit, nothing serious. I landed on it funny near the end of practice—aah, Iwa-chan!” 

Iwaizumi’s got him scooped up in his arms before he can finish his sentence, formulating his treatment plan in his mind. Oikawa relaxes in his grip, though, and it takes all of Iwaizumi to actually let him down on the couch instead of keeping him cradled in his arms. 

“Tell me where it hurts,” he says, palpating the joint softly. 

“Iwa-chan, please, it’s fi— _ ow,”  _ Oikawa gasps when he palpates just the right area to twinge his ACL. 

Same as always. Iwaizumi sprints to the freezer and finds an ice pack, then sprints back. He kneels in front of him, placing his leg on his own knee to work on it.

It’s almost exactly like with Sato. He has to check above Oikawa’s knee to make sure his thigh isn’t spouting blood, and even when it isn’t, Iwaizumi shucks his own t-shirt off and starts ripping strips from it. 

“Whatcha doing there?” Oikawa questions, eyeing him up and down. 

“Making a cravat. Shh. Rest,” Iwaizumi orders in complete reflex. He folds it faster than he’s ever folded one before, then ties around his knee and tucks the ice pack underneath it. He whips the ties into place, satisfied when it’s snug and steady. 

Iwaizumi looks around, checking the doors and the windows and feeling the ghost of the weight of his sidearm on his hip. His heart is pounding—this has happened before, and the end result wasn’t pretty. Is the apartment even safe? They’re not in a great area of the city and Oikawa forgets to deadbolt the door most evenings. How can Iwaizumi ever make sure nothing bad happens to him? How does he  _ let  _ this happen—

“Hajime…?” Oikawa probes, forcing him out of his head. 

Iwaizumi exhales sharply and pats the ice-pack-dressing he improvised. “There, done.” 

Oikawa and Iwaizumi both examine his handiwork—precise, professional,  _ military. _

He did that. He did that better than when it was Sato that needed the help. Why did he feel the compulsion to do that? 

“I’m not sure that was worth sacrificing your shirt, but thanks.” Oikawa smiles shakily. 

Iwaizumi feels guilt flowing in his veins as soon as he realizes how weird that probably seemed to him. “I—sorry. I’m sorry. Force of habit to do...that. Is it too tight?” 

“No, that’s great. You fixed me right up.” Oikawa’s voice is steadier now. He rubs Iwaizumi’s hair—growing out slowly, now that he’s not in the service—and brings his hand to cradle his cheek. “Are you alright? You...y’know, you did that thing where you get far away.” 

_ You’re damaged goods,  _ his words scream.  _ You’re different from the Hajime I fell in love with. _

“Yeah.” Iwaizumi kisses the hand Oikawa has on his cheek and shakes himself off, trying to visualize the memories floating far, far away from here, trying to make them stay in the Gulf of Aden where they belong. They have no place in the peace and comfort of San Juan. “Yeah. I’m fine. Let me bring the food over. How many ibuprofen do you want?” 

“Two,” he murmurs, no longer making eye contact with him. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

_ No, I can’t. Nice sentiment, though.  _ “I know.” Iwaizumi kisses his knee, then his cheek. “Thanks for putting up with old habits.” 

He stands up before Oikawa can respond, slinging a hoodie over his bare chest, bringing the takeout boxes over, and fishing in the spice drawer for where Oikawa keeps his painkillers. Shows how often he uses them. 

“Okay, go easy on the wine tonight, please, NSAIDs and alcohol aren’t supposed to mix,” Iwaizumi says as he settles down on the couch, passes his fiance the pills, and pours the deep red wine into their glasses. “And tell your trainer about this, okay?”

“Will do.” Oikawa clinks their glasses together. “To my wonderful medic fiance and his healing touch.” 

“Thanks, babe.” Iwaizumi sips, careful and slow. He had been warned by the psych eval lady during his discharge to keep away from heavy drinking. A few glasses of wine wasn’t  _ heavy _ , but he didn’t want it to become a coping mechanism. Does he even  _ have _ any coping mechanisms, other than just fixating on Oikawa’s safety? 

“Now!” Oikawa says, an empanada dripping with chimichurri hanging out of his mouth. “ _ Viaje a las Estrellas? _ ” 

“Sounds good.” 

He flicks it on and they eat along to the sound of sci-fi sound effects and rapid-fire Spanish. They had been watching the Spanish dubbing of Star Trek and its various permutations in efforts to make Iwaizumi’s Spanish a little better. He had already seen most of the episodes with Oikawa in high school anyways—he was always really obsessed with it—so it worked out pretty well as a teaching tool. Plus, it was slightly naval in its themes, and that had a weird sense of familiarity to it. 

Three episodes in, three takeout boxes cleared, and three glasses of wine emptied, Oikawa lays against Iwaizumi’s chest, watching half-drunk and drowsily. He looks up at Iwaizumi and kisses his lips sloppily—he tastes of dulce de leche, sweet and rich. 

“Mm?” Iwaizumi perks up. “ _ Que quieres? _ ” 

“ _ Muy bien,”  _ Oikawa congratulates his vocabulary sleepily. “ _ Es nada _ . Just...y’know, I meant it when I said you could tell me anything.” 

Iwaizumi pets his hair, gentle and appreciative of his beauty. “I know you did.” 

“But you don’t ever tell me anything.” 

“I tell you about some things.” 

“But not the heavy things. The things that make this…” Oikawa reaches up and grazes his finger over Iwaizumi’s scrunched brow. He relaxes it and promptly nips Oikawa’s finger, making him pull away giggling. “Silly. I’m trying to have an adult-y, marriage-y communication session with you.” 

“I know. But I don’t really...some things deserve to never be talked about.” 

“Like when you have those nightmares and then won’t tell me what’s going on in them? Or when you shut and lock doors really tightly behind you? Or when you rip up your shirt to make an actual military field dressing for my stupid knee?” His voice is still soft and sleepy, but there’s deliberacy behind every syllable. 

“You read those dumb military wife blogs. They’re habits. Like, okay, you want to know why I do the things with the doors? I was on a  _ ship _ . We keep the doors shut in case of flooding or fire or rough seas.” 

“You just answered thirty-three percent of that.” 

“Those other two are more complicated.” Iwaizumi stops looking him in the eyes. “I can’t put them into words. They’ll get better. I’m sorry if they’re...y’know, disruptive, or whatever.” 

“No, no, don’t apologize, that’s not—no. Hajime, no.” Oikawa flips slightly in Iwaizumi’s arms to face him better. “I want to be someone who can support you. Especially if I’m gonna be your husband. I need to figure out how to be better at that.” 

“Tooru…” Iwaizumi pulls him closer. “You already do. More than you could ever know. There’s no ‘better.’” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Mm-hm.” 

“Are you really sure?” 

“Yes, Tooru.” 

“Okay,” he hums. 

They sit quietly for a few beats until Oikawa turns to kiss him again, even sleepier and sloppier.

Iwaizumi resists the urge to laugh at him. “Yes?” 

He’s barely awake, but he murmurs, “Let’s fuck.” 

Iwaizumi kisses his forehead and gives into laughing. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but not tonight. You’re exhausted and I don’t want to hurt your knee by accident.” 

“Aw,” he whines, then yawns widely.

“Case in point.” 

Oikawa snuggles closer to him, letting Iwaizumi run fingers through his still-damp hair and massage his volleyball-tight shoulders. He hums happily, at the mercy of Iwaizumi’s ministrations. 

It doesn’t take long after that for Oikawa to drift off to sleep. Iwaizumi sits there for a few minutes with him, checking his phone and procrastinating having to move to the bedroom, but he finally convinces himself it would be better for Oikawa to get proper rest in bed. He has to stay in shape for his team. Iwaizumi cleans up the coffee table, shuts off the TV, and scoops him up, placing him gently in the bed and replacing the melted ice pack and cravat on his knee with his night compression sleeve. Kiki jumps up onto the bed to curl around his shoulder, and finally Iwaizumi falls into bed, curling his own arms around him. 

Oikawa doesn’t wake, even amid all this movement. The luxury and privilege of heavy sleeping.

“Goodnight, Tooru,” he whispers, holding him close and hoping he won’t have nightmares tonight. He’s not going to let Oikawa have the last laugh about that. 

* * *

“...Hajime…? Hajime? Hajime!?” 

Iwaizumi blinks blearily for a moment. His chest hurts and he can’t catch his breath. He’s sobbing, that’s what that is. Uncontrollable sobbing, like the afternoon when Sato was shot and he killed the pirate and he spent most of the day languishing in Sato’s bunk. 

Probably because he just relived the entire experience in a nightmare. Vivid and bright and colored red with fear and anger. 

“Hajime,” Oikawa says, gripping his shoulders, willing him back to reality with his touch. “You’re alright. It was only a dream.”

“Tooru?” He breathes in enough oxygen to say. Oikawa’s here, so he must not be on the ship. 

“Yeah. I’m here,” Oikawa murmurs and pulls him in tight, sitting them up against the headboard and rocking him gently. “You with me?” 

Iwaizumi nods. His gentle rocking is like being on the ship, but he  _ knows  _ he’s in San Juan,  _ knows  _ he’s not in active duty service anymore. He just has the same mindset. 

Iwaizumi forces his breath to slow, holding the air in and letting it out with conscious control. It still hurts his chest. It still  _ hurts _ . 

“That’s right. You’re okay, Hajime,” Oikawa murmurs. “This one was really bad, huh?” 

“It’s the same thing every time.” He shoves his face into Oikawa’s chest, using his body heat to ground himself. “Just more intense tonight.” 

Oikawa pulls him up farther and closer. “I’m sorry, this is my fault, I tried to get you to talk about it and that made it worse.” 

“No,” Iwaizumi pounds a single, gentle fist on his chest. “Stop. Stop blaming yourself. This is my problem.” 

Oikawa takes the balled-up fist and pries it open to lace with his own fingers. “There has to be something I can do.” 

“Just...sit here with me for a bit, and then I gotta...gotta do some stuff,” Iwaizumi mumbles. He needs to call Sato and write letters to Hayashi and Tanabe and check on his things from the service and walk around some. “Go back to sleep, Tooru. You need to be well-rested for practice.” 

“Not really,” Oikawa sighs and rubs his hands over Iwaizumi’s ribs.  _ You come first _ is what he’s trying to say, but he’s too proud to admit it and always leaves it to subtext. “C’mon. Let’s get you some water.” 

He nods—this is the routine they follow after Iwaizumi has a night like this. Routines are nice. Oikawa helps him up and they pad from the bedroom to the kitchen, Iwaizumi flicking on a couple lights along the way. He runs over an inventory in his mind—water, call Sato, bring his duffle out of the closet and organize all his old things from the service, get stationery, sit out on the balcony, write letters to the apprentices—wait, no, they’re real Seamen now, not apprentices—

“Here, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa places the glass of tap water in his hand. Room temperature, like on the ship. Good. Routine. 

“Thanks.” He sips, pulling out his phone.

**_Hey can I call you_ **

Sato doesn’t even write back. His phone starts buzzing immediately; Oikawa makes eye contact with him and mouths  _ Want me to go?,  _ gesturing behind him.

“Yeah. Sorry, this’ll only take a minute. Try to go back to sleep, okay?” Iwaizumi begs. God, he hates interrupting Oikawa’s whole life. His life, full of promise and possibility, is just getting started, while Iwaizumi’s living in the past.

Oikawa nods and slinks out, almost like he’s been banished to his room. Fucking fuck. 

_ “Hey,”  _ Sato greets, cheery. 

“Hey.” 

_ “0400, huh?”  _

“Yeah. What’re you doing right now?” 

_ “Out on the pier.”  _

“Get anything?” 

_ “Nah, nothing’s biting.”  _

“That sucks.” 

_ “Things suck, man. That’s just the way it is.”  _

Iwaizumi can’t argue with that. He sets his glass in the sink and moves toward the hall closet, pulling out his service duffle and taking stock. “How’s your leg?” 

_ “Better every day.”  _

“Still got the cane?” 

_ “Yeah, under my bed.”  _

He can’t help but frown disapprovingly. “You should use it. What if you fall?” 

_ “Thank you for the input, Doc, will take it under advisement.”  _

Iwaizumi huffs a quiet laugh. Everything’s in his duffle, just like the last time he opened it. He brings out his fatigue jacket and chucks it over his shoulders, then grabs his stationery and a pen and steps out onto the balcony. It’s humid, but the weight of the jacket on his shoulders is comforting and familiar. All he needs is the gentle rock of the Gulf of Aden to complete his regression session.

_ “All that aside. Tell me.”  _

“Same shit. Same goddamn shit, Sato,” he murmurs, feeling thoroughly sorry for himself and falling back into his sailor cursing. 

He addresses the letter and starts writing. How appropriate.  _ Hayashi and Tanabe:  _

_ “I know what you mean.”  _

“How does Chiasa deal with it? Y’know.” 

_ “Sits with me until it all passes. Sometimes we go on a little walk. Mostly she stays quiet. Tooru’s more interactive than she is, that’s for sure.”  _

His handwriting stays precise and readable as he asks questions about Hayashi and Tanabe’s service and relays answers about his own life post-service. He leaves out the nasty details—they don’t need that burden while they’re still serving. 

He chews his pen and groans, “I feel so bad asking Tooru to leave me alone. He looks like a...kicked puppy, sometimes, but I just—y’know, even if this shit  _ weren’t  _ classified, I’m not sure I could ever tell him.” 

_ “So he has no idea what you’re dreaming about?”  _

“Not a clue. He says I talk during them, usually say your name or Mizoguchi’s or sometimes talk about quote-unquote ‘a gun,’ but nothing really substantial.” 

_ Always your fellow Sailor, Iwaizumi Hajime.  _ There. The letter’s done. He’s gotten quicker at them than when he was in the service, not burdened by the need to draw them out so long to maximize the distraction they provided.

_ “...Bear with me when I ask this.”  _

He licks the envelope closed and slaps it on the table. “Ask, you piece of shit. No pretense, it’s too early in the morning.” 

_ “Alright, fucker. You ever think about telling Tooru?”  _

Iwaizumi has to set down his pen and hold his phone with two hands. “Do I ever  _ what  _ now?” 

There’s a few beats of silence where Sato seems to be deciding his words. 

_ “Look, I...uh, told Chiasa, and the nightmares quit coming so frequently. I feel so much better and so does she, now that she knows the full story.”  _

“Chiasa is a  _ civilian _ , Sato. What were you thinking!?” Iwaizumi feels his voice rising higher and higher in volume. “They could take away your—your  _ pension _ , your healthcare, your counseling, I don’t know what they’d do! And she has to live with knowing that she has to keep that secret forever!” 

_ “Sure. But she’s my wife before all that, and that’s what you  _ don’t _ get.”  _

Iwaizumi sits there, unable to come up with a cohesive answer. “But—”

_ “But nothing, Iwaizumi. Look, you’re about to get into a marriage that you may be rushing. You’re young as hell. But you’d do anything for Tooru, wouldn’t you?”  _

“Of course I would!” 

_ “Isn’t he hurting, watching you suffer? You ever think about how he might be feeling about all this? From what you’ve told me, he’s insecure and probably blames himself for you being all shut up.”  _

“Are you calling me selfish for keeping a  _ government secret?  _ I’m in the Reserves. I can’t afford to  _ run my fucking mouth _ .” 

He says that with so much vitriol that his fist comes to slam on the table and the metal feet of it bang with a reverb on the balcony floor. The letter jumps and falls. 

At this moment, Iwaizumi hears a quiet tapping on the balcony glass door. He snaps his head up—Oikawa’s peering at him worriedly, eyes wide and expression drawn tight. Great, he saw his temper tantrum.

Iwaizumi takes a deep breath and attempts to relax.  _ One sec,  _ he mouths. Oikawa nods and backs away, but Iwaizumi knows he’s still watching him. 

_ “Iwaizumi. Calm the fuck down. I know you’re pissed about everything, but I also know you want to tell Tooru every last gory detail until you’re completely emptied. Don’t even fight me on that.”  _

Iwaizumi doesn’t. He sucks in hissing breaths, trying to force himself to calm down. 

_ “Give me his number, Iwaizumi.”  _

“No. No, hell no, Sato, you won’t tell him,” he says, shaking his head. 

_ “I won’t tell him outright, but someone needs to explain to him what you’re doing. Why you have to call me three times a week. Why you hurt so bad.”  _

Iwaizumi can’t deny the truth in his statement, but he can’t accept it either. “Don’t make me seem like a...a nutcase.” 

_ “When did I say that? Huh? When did I ever say that? It’s no longer  _ about _ you. It’s about you  _ and  _ Tooru. You are a unit now.”  _

Iwaizumi feels his heart clawing at his ribcage, guilt and fear and anticipation shooting pure epinephrine from his adrenals to his cardiac muscles. 

_ “And if you can’t reconcile that—if you can’t figure out how to share your burdens with him—then you aren’t ready for marriage.”  _

“This is different—” 

_ “But does that matter if it’s killing your marriage before you even start? Problems are problems. Show him some trust.”  _

Iwaizumi grips at his phone as he tries to make a decision. He’s weighed the consequences so many times in his head. 

“Get something to write this down on, I’m not repeating it. 54 9 264 431-2424. That’s his cell number. Don’t call from a landline and don’t ask me to pay the international fee.”

_ “You won’t regret this—”  _

“Shut the fuck up, I already do.” 

Iwaizumi hangs up on him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _fun facts:_  
>  \- since oikawa's inital spanish knowledge only came from star trek dubs and volleyball games with spanish commentary, he, uh, well, you can imagine how well that worked for him in his beginning months in argentina  
> \- oikawa's phone number here at the end is a real number of a location that will appear in the next chapter!  
> \- of course, if you keep up with this series, then you know kageyama ends up joining iwaizumi at sendai EMS. but every now and again he thinks about enlisting, and every now and again iwaizumi has a myocardial infarction  
> \- they eat takeout like...every night. iwaizumi can cook but oikawa's too fickle to enjoy most of it, and oikawa can't cook, period.   
> \- i have no idea if they have hgtv in japan but i feel like daichi would be heavily invested in house hunters and love it or list it
> 
> all that aside. hello. how was your week. have you gotten eight hours of sleep every night? please do so if you can. love you. comments/questions/suggestions/salutations, go on and let me know !


	4. never gonna hold the hand of another guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _swap /swäp/_ : (n.) something Iwaizumi Hajime (22) (Petty Officer Third Class Hospital Corpsman And Marksman, Reservist) (Potential Hire For Sendai EMS) sees in real time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO uh as you can see, the tags have changed and the chapter count has been extended. please, please tread carefully if you need to. i'm sorry this is sortof a surprise—i was indecisive about how i wanted this story to end. the story honestly was always meant to go in this direction, but it took a week of really intense editing to fix it just the way it was supposed to go. 
> 
> please mind that there will be extensive description and use of guns in this chapter (but not in a violent manner). 
> 
> and uh, with that, please enjoy (?) the fourth chapter.

Oikawa is in the UPCN San Juan locker room prepping for morning practice when his phone rings—his  _ Argentina  _ phone, the one no one from home had the number for unless they were actually friends—and it’s a Japanese number. 

He’s too exhausted, only barely bothers to put on his performance phone voice. “Hello?” 

_ “Oikawa Tooru, right?”  _

“Who’s this?” Oikawa waves wearily when Cavanna walks in. He hasn’t spoken a word of Spanish all morning, so his teammates are sort of avoiding him, since that’s usually a bad sign. 

_ “My name’s Sato. I don’t know if you remember who I am, we’ve never actually met before.”  _

Oikawa racks his brain. Sato, he’s met so many Satos, but the timing of this isn’t merely coincidental. “Are you the Sato that was Iwaizumi Hajime’s bunkmate in the JMSDF?” 

_ “That’s me.”  _

Oikawa feels himself growl. Iwaizumi doesn’t  _ like _ being reminded about his time in the service. If this Sato asshole is just trying to get to Iwaizumi, he’ll sorely regret it. He makes his voice sickly sweet. “Where’d you get my number?” 

_ “Iwaizumi gave it to me last night.”  _

“He was talking to  _ you  _ last night?” 

_ “Yeah.”  _

Oikawa breaks from tying his shoe and laughs bitterly. “Do you know how  _ inconsolable  _ he was afterward? He barely spoke three words to me before he basically locked me in our bedroom. He was gone when I woke up this morning. What the hell did you say to him?” 

_ “Jesus Christ, let me get a word in. Iwaizumi calls me every time he has that nightmare, I should tell you, and last night was an anomaly. Also, he’ll come back. Do you feel like calming down to hear what I have to say or not?”  _

He’s too frank for Oikawa’s taste. Too much like Iwaizumi. “Fine. Go. But if this takes longer than thirty seconds, I’m hanging up.” 

_ “Great, screw my delicately-crafted speech, I’ll just say it plainly.”  _

Oikawa smiles condescendingly, even though he can’t see it. “Go for it. Twenty-five seconds left.” 

He can hear him take a deep breath.  _ “Iwaizumi has recurring nightmares about a classified mission he and I went on, in which I was shot in the leg and he saved my life. There’s another element to the mission which...I think Iwaizumi worries more about, but I won’t tell that part of the story.”  _

Oikawa pauses.  _ That _ , he wasn’t expecting. “Um. Come again?” 

_ “Yeah. Yeah, I’m not saying anything more than that, but that’s the reason why he never tells you about the nightmares. Not your fault, but knowing him, if you could get him to talk about it, it might help. I’m clearly not useful to him outside of service, and I can’t help here, and it’s killing me. Look, tell him I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want it to be this way. I didn’t want it to. I wanted it to be so much better than it is.” _

Oikawa has to sit there and wonder what the fuck this guy is talking about, hands hovering over his shoelaces.

_ “Anyways, it’s been thirty seconds and you scare the shit out of me, so I’m hanging up. Iwaizumi mentioned some sort of shooting range in your city at one point? Check there. I’ll call you again if he calls me before you find him. Have a great day.”  _

Click. 

Oikawa rips off his court shoes, shoulders his backpack, and starts googling the nearest shooting range.

* * *

Iwaizumi’s been standing behind the counter at this shooting range for thirty minutes. 

“Uh.  _ Quiero...a gun,”  _ he says, mixing his rough blend of English and Spanish. He gestures to the Walther in the glass case, ready for someone to rent.  _ “Quiero use. Uso. Usar.”  _

The attendant, young and bored initially, looks at him strangely. He probably doesn’t speak good enough English to communicate with him.  _ “Habla espa _ _ ñol?”  _

Iwaizumi steels. He knows that one. “ _ No.”  _

He smiles tightly and moves towards the back, taking his phone with him.  _ “Un momento.”  _

Iwaizumi prays silently that he’s not calling the cops and whips out his own phone, bringing out the trusty translation app he had used while on base in Djibouti. He has to switch it from Somali to Spanish, but he makes the tinny voice say,  _ “Me gustaria alquilar un arma.”  _

The attendant pauses and gestures for him to pass the phone over. Iwaizumi does so. He types furiously and it says back in Iwaizumi’s native tongue simply, “Photo ID?” 

Iwaizumi fishes for his wallet in the shorts he had thrown on when he decided to leave the confines of the apartment. He takes out his driver’s license and pulls out his dog tags from his neck for good measure. 

The attendant looks at them with curiosity, flipping them over and examining them.  _ JAPAN MSDF _ , they say in block Latin letters, next to his name, ID number, and blood type. 

The attendant taps on his phone again. “You are Japanese military?” 

_ “Sí,”  _ he says simply. 

More tapping. He looks steadily more suspicious. “I thought you did not have a military.” 

Iwaizumi gets the phone back.  _ “Fuerza de autodefensa.”  _ He pauses after it says that, then adds,  _ “Soy un francotirador.”  _

His eyes widen. Iwaizumi hoped that translated right, he put in  _ sharpshooter _ , hoping he’d be more likely to let him in the range if he knew he was qualified _.  _

The attendant turns on his heel and heads into the back, right as Iwaizumi reverse translates it. Shit, he accidentally said he was a sniper.  _ Shit.  _

Just as Iwaizumi’s about to try and explain that he isn’t here to try and murder them or do anything nefarious, the front door jingles open. “Hajime!” 

“Tooru?” He spins around—he stands at the door, panting and sweating like he ran there. “Tooru, I’m really sorry, I’ll make it up to you, but you gotta help me, I think he thinks I’m a criminal, I accidentally told him I was a sniper, fucking Google Translate,  _ fuck. _ ” 

Tooru sprints in and grips Iwaizumi’s hand, then smacks the table repeatedly. “ _ Perdón! Perdón! Por favor, espera! Hablo espa _ _ ñol! _ _ ”  _

The attendant comes back, alerted by the new voice. He and Oikawa exchange rapid-fire words, gesturing back and forth. The attendant seems to relax and Oikawa squeezes Iwaizumi’s hand. 

Then, the attendant pauses. “ _ Usted es Oikawa? El jugador de voleibol? UPCN?” _

Oikawa brightens and nods, picking up Iwaizumi’s hand and gesturing to the ring on his finger. 

Iwaizumi resists the urge to pull his hand back. “Tooru, we’re at a  _ shooting range _ , I can’t imagine they like gay people—” 

Oikawa shushes him. “I’m working my magic, hold on.” 

They continue on in Spanish, laughing amicably. The attendant eventually pulls his phone out and snaps a selfie with him, Oikawa throwing up a peace sign and his sexy little smile. 

Oikawa grins as he pulls away. “He says he’s seen me on TV.” 

Iwaiuzmi snorts. “Naturally.” 

Oikawa exchanges a few more words with him, then turns back to Iwaizumi. “Which one do you want, babe?” 

Iwaizumi bristles. “Huh?” 

“Which gun.” Oikawa smiles, though it’s shaky and his eyes don’t hold his gaze. He downplays it like he’s ordering something at McDonald’s and not renting a handheld killing machine.

He’s  _ scared.  _ Probably scared of Iwaizumi, and that’s...that’s, no, that’s unacceptable. 

“No, screw it, I dunno what got into me. I’m sorry,” Iwaizumi sighs. “How’d you even find me? You should be at practice anyways.” 

“Hajime, I couldn’t just go on with my regular life knowing you were off somewhere. You’re my fiance.” He says the last bit with some tenderness. “Your bunkmate called. He said you might be at a shooting range, and this was the only one in San Juan. Did—did you walk here? It’s kinda far from the apartment.” 

Iwaizumi shrugs and tries not to feel weird about Sato calling Oikawa, considering he knew it would happen. “Yeah.” 

Oikawa frowns. “I...why, Hajime?” 

Iwaizumi feels himself tense as he looks away from him. He felt so bad about it. He’s so used to going off on his own and was so blinded by the sudden urge to get up at 0600 and  _ do something _ that it didn’t really occur to him to let Oikawa know where he went. “If I knew, I’d tell you, I promise. I just...needed to get away and do something, and this was the only thing that felt right.” 

Oikawa nods, but he clearly only has a superficial understanding of what’s happening. 

He sighs sharply and looks directly at Oikawa. “I’m sorry I didn’t leave a note, and I’m sorry about last night.” 

“I know. It’s okay. I forgive you,” he says quietly. 

_ I forgive you.  _ Words that usually never come from Oikawa Tooru’s mouth. Unless you’re his fiance, he supposes. 

“Now, now, I’m not going back to practice! I’m having Iwa-chan time!” he proclaims, not seeming to acknowledge or care that Iwaizumi doesn’t want Oikawa to see him fire a gun. “Don’t let me stop you! Which one do you want?” 

Iwaizumi wants to grumble and leave but resigns himself. He points to the Walther. “That one.” 

Oikawa gets the attention of the attendant, who had gone back to playing on his phone. Money and IDs are exchanged—Iwaizumi puts his dog tags back on—and soon they’re out to the range. They didn’t ask as many questions as Iwaizumi thought they would; maybe that’s a product of Oikawa being famous, at least to the attendant. 

The attendant follows them, but again, doesn’t really seem to care what they’re doing. He sits by the entrance, noise-canceling headphones on, lazily watching them.

Iwaizumi sets the gun case down on the shooting bench, cracking his knuckles. “Are you sure you wanna be here, Tooru?” 

He shrugs, full of faux nonchalance. “Yeah.” 

Iwaizumi scoffs. 

“No, really!” he insists. “What, do you...not want me here, or something?” 

Iwaizumi sighs as Sato’s words run through his mind.  _ Show him some trust.  _

He decides to explain himself. “It’s just that everything about me and being a sharpshooter, y’know,  _ isn’t  _ like how I was in high school. Like, this is the first time you’re seeing a gun in real life, right?” 

Oikawa looks down at it, resting carefully in the case. It’s beat-up from being a rental, but the scuffs make it look like Iwaizumi’s old sidearm. He nods.

_ Show him some trust.  _

Iwaizumi sighs and gesticulates awkwardly. “This part of me—the sharpshooter part—it’s not the Hajime you fell in love with. I’ve...been afraid to show or tell you about things that happened to me while I was in the service, and this is one of them. I was a sharpshooter, and that sometimes came before my role as a corpsman. I spent a lot of time at the range and I...I don’t want you turned off or...I dunno, repelled by that fact.” 

Oikawa’s eyebrows knit. Iwaizumi can practically see his brain trying to come up with an appropriate response. “Hajime, I fall more and more in love with you every day. Every part of you. You can’t ever get rid of me.” 

Iwaizumi softens the protective scowl that was building up on his face. 

“Your bunkmate, Sato-chan—” 

Iwaizumi has to snort. Oikawa frowns. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just—oh, God, his name. Sorry, continue.” 

“Just trying to dispel tension,” Oikawa says, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, he was telling me about how you did some sort of mission—” 

The protective scowl comes back. “What did he tell you?” 

“Nothing!” Oikawa yelps. “He said he got shot and you saved him. That’s all.” 

“He didn’t say who shot him, did he?” 

“No, he didn’t.” 

Iwaizumi lets himself relax some. “Okay.” 

“But, Hajime, if you don’t want me to know about things like this because…because you’re worried about what  _ I  _ think, then...I dunno, that makes me feel worse. Worse than I could ever possibly feel knowing whatever it was that happened on this mission. Nothing could ever change the way I feel about you. Ever. Ever, ever.” 

Well. Trust, huh. 

Iwaizumi looks over to the attendant—playing on his phone—and wraps Oikawa in his arms. He smells like nervous sweat and the coffee stain on the neck of his t-shirt, vulnerable and imperfect. “I dunno what I did to deserve you.” 

“You don’t have to do anything for me to love you,” he murmurs in Iwaizumi’s hair. Stupid Oikawa being taller than him. He’s still salty about that.

Iwaizumi lets him go after a little while. “So...uh.” 

“So!” Oikawa smiles brilliantly. 

“Are you sure you’re allowed to miss practice?” 

“Mm, yeah, it’s fine. I wasn’t going to go full-out anyways, my knee’s still sore.” 

“I don’t want you to just sit around here and do nothing,” Iwaizumi grumbles. Even with his injury, idleness will only make Oikawa grumpy later. 

Oikawa pokes him in the side. “What if you taught me?” 

“Huh? Taught you what?” Iwaizumi knows what he means, but wants Oikawa to confirm it.

“To shoot. Y’know,  _ pow _ .” He mimes a gun at the paper target stapled across the range. “ _ Pow, pow _ .” 

Iwaizumi waits to say anything as he weighs this carefully. He doesn’t want to bring Oikawa into the world of combat, but in some ways, it would make him feel safer to know Oikawa could defend himself in...some sort of situation where he’d need to do it. And it would be another show of trust. Another layer of understanding between them.

“I promise I will be safe and listen to whatever you have to say very attentively,” Oikawa says, back straight and posture very official. “And we could, um. Stop, if it got too much or something, I dunno how it works.” 

Iwaizumi exhales. He hopes he won’t regret this. “Okay. Sure, if you want to, I’ll teach you. I used to help teach the apprentices when I was in Africa.” He decides to smirk, to try and make it seem like he’s feeling confident. “Only if you can handle it, of course.” 

Oikawa grins competitively. “Bring it on, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi guides him over to the shooting bench by the waist, popping open the gun case. “This,” he says, holding the gun in his hand, “is a Walther PPX. German pistol, nine-milimeter, 0.40 caliber, not too bad of a kick. Good gun for you to try out, actually. We don’t use these in the JSDF, but this is...kind of like the one I kept as a sidearm.” 

Oikawa looks at it curiously. “Can I hold it?” 

“In a minute. Be patient,” Iwaizumi chides. “It has no safety, okay? There’s no way to turn it off. If it’s loaded and there’s a bullet in the chamber, it will fire. So be  _ extremely _ careful.” 

“But it’s not loaded—” 

“How do you know?” Iwaizumi asks, eyebrow cocked. “I haven’t shown you the magazine. I haven’t pulled back the slide to check if there’s a bullet in the chamber. How do you know it isn’t loaded?” 

That shuts Oikawa up. He probably doesn’t know what those terms even mean.

“Good, now that’s settled.” Iwaizumi sighs and sets it down, looking Oikawa directly in the eye. “We treat a gun with respect. It is a killing machine, first and foremost, and so we never point it at anything other than what we intend to shoot. We are deliberate with it. We always know what we’re shooting at. We never handle it until our fiance says it’s okay to. We always hold it upright and with two hands, and we keep our finger off the trigger until we’re in shooting position. And we always,  _ always _ , keep it unloaded if we aren’t actively using it.” 

Oikawa nods, looking thoroughly spooked. 

“Got all that?” 

He salutes, grin breaking through his faux-serious face. “Yes, sir.”

Iwaizumi brushes the hand down and scoffs. “Okay. Now, you can hold the gun before we load it. Let me show you how we know if it’s loaded. First, we take out the magazine.” Iwaizumi moves closer to Oikawa as he picks the gun up from the bench. Their hips brush together, familiar and comforting. “We take it out like this. It’s spring-loaded.” 

He presses the circular ejection button and the magazine pops out. 

“See? Empty.” Iwaizumi holds it up for Oikawa to look into. “And we put it back like this.” 

He slides the magazine back in with a click. 

“Like in the movies,” Oikawa comments, fascinated. 

“Yup.” Iwaizumi pulls the slide back, revealing the empty chamber. “This thing is called the slide, and when we pull it back, we chamber a bullet. The whole thing is called cocking. But it’s also how we can be absolutely sure there’s nothing inside. See anything?” 

“Nope.” 

“Okay, great. So, now we know it isn’t loaded. Come with me.” 

Iwaizumi leads Oikawa out from behind the shooting bench and towards the targets. 

“We hold a pistol like so.” Iwaizumi clenches his palm around the grip and raises it, looking through the sight. “We keep our shoulders level, our backs straight, and our feet shoulder-width apart. When you’re at eye level and the gun is straight, the sight will line up.” 

He sits there for a moment, feeling himself tense in the position. Through the sight, he almost imagines the pirate for a moment.

“Iwa-chan…” Oikawa whines, expectant and anxious to start.

Iwaizumi snaps out of it. “I know, I know, sorry. You can have it now.” He carefully transfers it to Oikawa’s waiting hands. “Don’t point it at me, okay? Point it at the ground.” 

“Okay,” he murmurs, concentrating very seriously. He keeps it pointed across his body at the ground. 

“I’m going to stand behind you now, and then you can raise it.” 

He steps behind and watches as Oikawa raises it, looking confident as he pushes back his shoulders. 

It’s so weird to watch that, but also...really sexy, in a weird way, but mostly  _ weird. _

“Good. How does it feel?” Iwaizumi asks. 

“Good, I guess,” Oikawa says, rolling his shoulders. “Do I close one eye?” 

“When you sight? Yeah, you can do that if you want. It might help your aim.” 

He sits there in the position for a few seconds more, looking pleased with himself as he lowers and raises the gun. 

“Okay, you want to try it out for real?” Iwaizumi asks. 

Oikawa lowers the pistol carefully and passes it to Iwaizumi. “You go first.” 

Iwaizumi narrows his eyes at him. This might be Oikawa trying to do exposure therapy or something, like in those military wife blogs he reads.

“No, show me how it goes, Iwa-chan, I need guidance.” 

Iwaizumi sighs. “Fine. It might be good to get you used to the sound of gunfire anyways. Put on your headphones, I’ll do a magazine. But don’t be disappointed if I don’t get every shot.” 

“How could I ever be disappointed in you?” He says, using his weird mix of flattery and encouragement. 

Iwaizumi ignores him and starts loading the magazine from the box of bullets on the shooting bench. He narrates it to Oikawa as he loads it. “Sixteen bullets go inside the magazine. The holes down the side tell you how many bullets are in there. The whole thing is spring-loaded, so we press the bullet down like this,” he says, pressing it down into the magazine over and over until his hand is covered in lead. “Okay, I’m serious about the headphones. Put them on.” 

Oikawa frowns and puts them over his styled hair. “No fair, how come you don’t wear them?” 

“Don’t have the luxury of that on duty, and you need your hearing more than I do,” he sighs and starts walking, gun pointed down and to the side. “Stay behind me, babe.”

He does, dutifully, and Iwaizumi can feel his eyes on his skull. He approaches the line and raises the pistol, cocks it, and takes a deep breath. Fifteen in the clip, one in the hole.

For a moment, he is completely paralyzed by the fact that this is the first time he’s fired a gun since the Gulf. 

Then he focuses on how the target is orange and yellow and is most definitely not a hand. Or a head.

He sights it. Takes another deep breath. Squeezes the trigger, making sure not to let his wrist drop or prematurely recoil.

Hit, bullseye. Oikawa jumps in his peripheral vision.

He looks over at Oikawa, still a little shell-shocked, probably because there is a golden shell at his feet, and grins. “How was that?” 

Oikawa blinks and then looks on with completely starry eyes. “Iwa-chan! That was so cool! Do another!” 

“Okay, okay, back up,” Iwaizumi encourages softly. He raises it. Another hit, bullseye. 

Oikawa’s mouth is agape. “Do the rest!” 

Iwaizumi sighs. Can he do the rest? 

Yeah. Yeah, he can.

He takes another huge breath, steadying himself. Routine sets in, just like the bullet in the chamber. 

_ Hit. HitHitHitHitHitHitHitHitHitHitHitHitHitHitClick.  _

Out of bullets. Iwaizumi lowers his smoking gun, rolling his shoulders back and fixing the slide. He looks up—he made a perfect circle around the inner target. Nice, still got it. 

The attendant from before has started to clap. He must believe his marksmanship skills now.

“Hajime…” Oikawa says, then laughs incredulously. “Hajime,  _ how did you do that? _ ” 

He shrugs. “It was my job, y’know. I spent a lot of time practicing.”

“But  _ still _ ! Oh my God! You’re like...a  _ spy! _ James Bond-chan!” Oikawa jumps up. 

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes at him as he pops the magazine out. Once Iwaizumi sets the gun down on the bench—safety first—Oikawa runs up the range and rips the perfectly-perforated paper target down from the stand, then hands it to the attendant, exclaiming quickly in Spanish. His words are full and bubbly with pride and excitement.

“Tooru…” Iwaizumi groans, blushing. He isn’t used to civilian praise for this ability. “Get on back here if you want to try.” 

“Coming!” He chimes, chasing towards Iwaizumi. “Can I load the—what’d you say, magazine?” 

“If you’d like. It’ll get lead on your hands, though.” He passes it over, handing him a bullet. “Press it down in there.” 

Oikawa’s long fingers are uncharacteristically clumsy as he loads, but he manages to do it. “More, please,” he asks, impatient. 

Iwaizumi hands him more until his finger movements become fluid and less jerky. Quick learner. He always was. He wrinkles his nose at the lead covering his palm now.

“Okay, put it in,” he instructs. “Watch where you point it. Hold it flat in the palm of your hand when you click it in.” 

Oikawa does as he’s told, slamming the magazine in dramatically, then walks carefully to the line. 

“You can raise it when you’re ready.” 

Iwaizumi tries to shake off the anxiety he has knowing Oikawa is holding a loaded weapon. He can’t shake it off. 

He steps closer. “Okay, now, before you pull the trigger, take a nice, deep breath. Then you hold that breath to stay still, and  _ then _ you pull the trigger. It’ll kick in your hands, so hold it very tightly until you get used to that. Don’t get surprised and drop it.” 

Oikawa nods, eyes fixed on the sight. 

“Okay. Fire at will.” 

Oikawa takes a few more deep breaths; his finger twitches by the trigger. Iwaizumi dares not say anything to reassure him, because in this state, he’d startle at his voice and fire the gun. 

Then, something moves over Oikawa. The spirit of competitiveness. He grins, wicked and passionate and so full of hallmark Oikawa pride. His finger moves. 

_ Bam _ . He hit the upper-right ring of the target, shell flinging to land at Iwaizumi’s feet. Not bad at all for his first try ever. 

Actually, that was good.  _ Really  _ good. Pride swells in Iwaizumi.

Oikawa’s panting, eyes wide by the sound and the feel of the killing machine in his hand. He looks over to Iwaizumi, bewildered and in awe. “Did I do that right?” 

“That was  _ great, _ ” Iwaizumi says. His cheeks burn and he crosses his arms, pointing to the little hole on the target. “Look at that. God, I’m so proud of you. Try it again.” 

Oikawa’s innocent little smile of disbelief at Iwaizumi’s words is soon replaced by a shit-eating grin. 

Right. Right, this is Oikawa he’s dealing with.

* * *

_ I’ve never been good with words. You were the letter writer, after all. I don’t know what to say here other than I loved you. You meant more to me than anyone ever did. Maybe more to me than my wife. You understood me. You knew what it was like.  _

_ I hope you manage to be stronger than I was. I don’t think I was ever cut out for this. But you were, from the start. Use that strength to reach out, before you get like me.  _

Inkblots on the page spread out, dark and black.

* * *

Iwaizumi and Oikawa head down to the civil office and get married the next week on a breezy day in May, with Hanamaki and Matsukawa over videochat serving as witnesses. The marriage itself is a surprisingly quiet affair, but the reception thrown by Oikawa’s teammates rages on and on, full of laughter and dancing and drinks and the general raucousness that resonates in Iwaizumi from years of sports teams and military service. 

Gifts pour in from around the world. Kindaichi, Kunimi, and Kageyama all pitch in to buy them a rice cooker, citing an incident from their years in high school where Oikawa  _ burnt rice _ ; Tanabe and Hayashi send a Somalian carpet that Iwaizumi  _ knows  _ had to be difficult to ship off the garrison; even Iwaizumi’s parents give them a very nice bottle of sake. Oikawa’s parents, of course, give no acknowledgment whatsoever, but Oikawa seems genuinely unbothered by it. 

Sato, oddly enough, doesn’t send any wedding gift. In fact, Iwaizumi hadn’t heard anything from him since he called Oikawa. But Iwaizumi knows he’s busy with setting up his charter business and is probably just being forgetful.

Iwaizumi has a completely new life now—a citizenship that allows him to get married and keep their money pooled in Argentinan accounts. They don’t change their surnames, though, but everything else fits. They’re a unit now. Together, by law. 

They stay at an ultra-fancy hotel room overlooking the city for the night. 

It’s the best day of Iwaizumi Hajime’s twenty-one years of life, and will never be rivaled by anything else, he thinks. 

They take a picture outside the civil office, beaming with one of each of their hands on their marriage certificate and their rings glinting in the sun.    
  


* * *

_ Dear Mrs. Beekhof, _

_ Andries Sato-Hajime is beautiful. Congratulations! This letter will probably not reach you in time, but I have enclosed a piece of calligraphy written by me (please forgive my handwriting, it has been a long time since I have practiced!). This is a translation of his name! Traditionally in Japan, we hang this up in the house a week after a baby is born. This is called お七夜命名式 (oshichiya meimeishiki). I wish you all the best of luck!  _

_ Thank you so much for your continued letters. I also have happy news—I have gotten married! I’ve also enclosed a picture from our small ceremony. Again, thank you for your letters and care.  _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Hajime Iwaizumi _

* * *

June flies by in a blur of newlywed bliss, despite the fact that they would wake up with the sun just so they could spend as many hours with each other as possible. Iwaizumi finishes reading his thick EMT-A textbook, confident that his certification exam will lead to complete success. Oikawa’s serve gets that much more powerful. They’re both growing and improving, spurred by having each other to encourage. 

The nightmares reduce in frequency as time passes and Iwaizumi feels more comfortable and at home in Argentina. The two of them go to the shooting range once a week and Oikawa’s aim gets steadily better and better. They take up riflery and shooting clays for greater competitive opportunity. Oikawa jokes that Iwaizumi could end up an Olympian, too. 

Mostly, Iwaizumi doesn’t want any of it to end. Mostly, Iwaizumi wants to stay in Argentina with Oikawa doing...mostly nothing. He briefly entertains the prospect of cutting ties with the EMS station in Sendai and terminating his Reserves contract to just work as an attendant at the shooting range. But that’s unrealistic. Mostly, he wants to be with Oikawa forever, and this long-distance bullshit they’ve agreed to doesn’t quite fit into the mold of  _ forever _ . Forever with interruptions, Oikawa called it. 

He has to leave. He has to give Oikawa the freedom to be the Olympian he deserves to become. He has to return to the country where their marriage is invalid in the eyes of the state. He has to go be a medic to civilians, doing impactful work serving his country, and he has to go be in the Reserves. 

They’ll spend time together in either San Juan or Sendai whenever they can. It’ll be expensive and hard, but nothing can top three years of complete isolation from each other. They can do it. 

Their last day is tinged with simultaneous regret at all the things they didn’t do and appreciation for all the things they did. Oikawa takes the day off and they wander around the city, eventually coming full circle to have some sex and enjoy a final dinner on their balcony. 

“I’ll still write,” Oikawa proclaims, shower-wet hair drying in the light of the setting sun. His bare feet nudge against Iwaizumi’s under the table. “Every week at this table, like when you were serving.” 

“Then I’ll write back,” Iwaizumi affirms. 

“I’ll call every day. No stupid boat in the middle of the ocean without wifi anymore. You can’t use that excuse anymore.” 

“Then I’ll pick up every day.” 

“Why is this so hard?” Oikawa whines, setting his fork down. He makes some dissatisfied noises. “Shit.” 

“Because we love each other, is all, Stupidkawa.” 

“I refuse to say goodbye.” 

“So do I.” 

“Then what do we say?” 

“I dunno, ‘see you later—’” 

“No, that implies leaving, and I refuse to accept it.” 

Iwaizumi chuckles at his pout, deciding to fuck with him. “Then...I dunno, ‘I  _ won’t _ see you later—’” 

“Fuck you!” Oikawa laughs, chucking his napkin at him. “I’m serious!” 

“Then we won’t say anything. Or just ‘I love you,’” Iwaizumi murmurs, feeling sappy. 

“That’s boring, Iwa-chan.” 

“ _ You’re _ boring.” 

“You’re boring-er.” 

They just end up laughing at each other for the rest of the night, and that fits just fine. Kiki comes to sit on both their laps, then on the balcony railing. The sun sets and the campy, cheap Christmas lights on their balcony glow, bright and steady, in time with the nice, romantic candles they set alight on the table. 

When the conversation comes to a lull and Iwaizumi’s finished off the last of the dulce de leche, he sets his hands down on the table and says what he had talked over with Sato about for the last month. “I have something to give you, Tooru.” 

“Oh? A parting gift?” Oikawa gets all excited. 

He winces. “Not really a gift. Well, I dunno, depends on how you see it.” 

“Oh,” he faux-pouts. 

“It’s...a letter that I wrote to you on the Onami that, uh, I never sent.” Iwaizumi stands up and pulls it from his back pocket, finger bloodstains and all. “I want you t-to read it. When you’re finished reading, I need you to use that c-c-candle right there and burn it, okay? It’s really important that you do that.” 

Oikawa nods, eyes flashing. He gets that it’s important if Iwaizumi’s stuttering. 

“I’m gonna go inside and...wash dishes or something.” He escapes, heart thundering as Oikawa unfolds the two-sided letter. He just broke a direct order and let out a state secret. He just…

But Tooru is his husband, and he couldn’t have left without doing that. 

He washes their few dishes with a fury, meticulous and crazed, then goes to sit on the couch and watches the news. It’ll rain tomorrow evening when he’ll be long gone. Oikawa will no doubt say it isn’t a coincidence and they’ll both end up crying along with the sky. After ten minutes of terror, he resorts to just going to bed—he needed to get up early tomorrow anyway. 

Oikawa slides into bed with him after an indeterminate amount of time, snaking his slender arms around his waist and fitting their legs together in a perfect curve. 

“Did you burn it?” Iwaizumi mumbles, sleepy but still anxious. 

“Yeah, I did.” He smells a bit like smoke, confirming this as true. 

“Good,” he hums, then forces, “Bedtime, then.” 

They’re silent for another indeterminate amount of time. Oikawa is holding his tongue for the first time in his life, waiting for Iwaizumi to say something. 

“Do you wish you hadn’t married me, now that you know?” Iwaizumi asks. It feels dramatic to ask, but he’s  _ genuinely worried  _ about it. “Wish you hadn’t married a...a murderer?” 

Oikawa tugs at his shoulder roughly, forcing him to flip over so they’re on their sides, facing each other. “Hajime. No. Stop. Don’t ever say that. I’ll never regret our marriage. Never.” 

Iwaizumi makes eye contact with him for a while, then finds his gaze too piercing to handle. 

“Do I wish you had  _ told me _ sooner? Sure, but only because I can’t imagine how much it hurt to hold that within you all alone.  _ Not _ because I would have thought anything different about you. You’re still my Iwa-chan and you always will be.” 

Iwaizumi tries very vigorously not to tear up and still fails. He flops his forehead on Oikawa’s shoulder to try and hide his face and not say anything, but Oikawa pulls his head off his shoulder with very soft fingers and cradles it to be at eye-level with him. He uses his thumbs to wipe away the tears collecting on his cheeks. 

“You’ve said before that you feel like you’re not the same person I fell in love with in high school, and sure, you’ve gone through experiences that change your perspective on yourself and maybe others, maybe even me, but that doesn’t mean you’ve changed fundamentally. You  _ are _ the same person I fell in love with—and that I continue to fall in love with.” 

Iwaizumi really is crying now, breaths hitching and eyes burning, but it’s been a long time coming. 

“I wish you hadn’t had to go through that. I didn’t know that was even  _ possible  _ for you to go through. I wish I could have been there for you and understood why you had your...habits. I wish I wasn’t just finding this out now, but I understand why you didn’t tell me, if Sato-chan said it was classified or just...if you thought I would think poorly of you.” 

He nods, afraid to open his mouth for his voice to crack and stutter. 

Oikawa rubs the side of Iwaizumi’s neck. “I’ll never quite understand what you did or how you feel,  _ ever _ . You are the bearer of your own experience. But I do know more now, and that clears up things for  _ me  _ dramatically. I feel better knowing this because it provides some explanation. Why you worry so much about my knee, why you—y’know, pushed me away, kinda, when I tried to figure out what was happening. I get it now. So thank you for telling me.” 

Oikawa finally lets Iwaizumi quit facing him, pulling him in close to his collarbone. 

“Do  _ you _ feel better now that I know, Hajime?” 

He shrugs and exhales hot on Oikawa’s skin. “‘S complicated. As long as you aren’t, y’know, disturbed or disgusted or something. Or s-s-scared of me—” 

“No, never. I could never,” Oikawa whispers, interrupting that line of thinking. “I could never do such a thing, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi melts further into his hold, letting his ankles relax to weave in with Oikawa’s. They sit  _ together _ , mutual understanding lying hot between them, for another indeterminate amount of time. 

“I do have a question, though,” Oikawa murmurs, interrupting. Iwaizumi gives into the urge to glare at him, because he has a feeling it’ll be a dumb question, but he follows up with, “You had wrote that you were going to be dishonorably discharged, but I thought that didn’t happen. You got all kinds of medals. What happened next?” 

Iwaizumi sighs, relieved at the question. “They offered me a spot with the Special Boarding Team, wanted to give me a promotion because...I dunno, I think it was because they knew I could kill someone if I needed to, and that’s somehow a valuable skill. But I turned it down. It was a bribe and I would have been trapped in the service forever.” 

“And then?” 

“And nothing. They let me finish my term and let the Dutch Navy give me that medal, but just made me promise I would never tell anyone what happened. I joined the Reserves because I didn’t know how I’d be able to function as just a regular civilian, but I promised myself I wouldn’t ever use a gun on duty unless I were directly ordered to.”  _ That worked out well, huh? _

“Oh,” Oikawa hums. “I see.” 

Iwaizumi gulps. “Yeah, so, uh...don’t tell anyone, okay?” 

He kisses away a lone, stubborn tear on his cheek. “I won’t. I promise.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.”

They settle again, holding on tight. 

“I think you’re really brave. I think you’re the bravest person I’ll ever know.” His lips brush together on Iwaizumi’s hairline.

“Thanks,” he can only murmur back, unsure of how to respond.

“Mmkay, Iwa-chan, you get to be the little spoon tonight, hm?” Oikawa hums, totally ruining the moment as Iwaizumi was nice and comfy in their current position. 

He grumbles softly and flips over, succumbing to Oikawa’s long, lengthy arms around his waist and chin on his neck. He’s going to miss this. 

“Hajime,” Oikawa murmurs into the triangle of skin where his neck meets his shoulder, just when they’re both barely conscious. 

“Mm.” 

“I love you.”

Iwaizumi falls asleep that night, and for the first time, he has no nightmares whatsoever.

* * *

_ Dear beloved,  _

_ I know you are doing the best job in the w _ **_h_ ** _ ol _ **_e_ ** _ wor _ **_l_ ** _ d as an Emergency Medical Technician - Advanced! What a title! So fitting for my  _ **_p_ ** _ rofessional _ **_,_ ** _ impressive hus _ **_b_ ** _ and! The children are well—Tobio-chan is progressing so st _ **_u_ ** _ diously th _ **_r_ ** _ ough ki _ **_n_ ** _ dergarten  _ **_t_ ** _ hat they’ve sent him to EMT school, skipping eve _ **_r_ ** _ yth _ **_i_ ** _ ng else entirely! So prodigious! He takes after his mother but will follow in the footsteps of his father. Kiki- _ **_c_ ** _ han is  _ **_e_ ** _ qually smart, but she’s beautiful, much more like her mother _ **_._ **

_ Your brother-in-law visited the Olympic training center this past week and has been in serious talks with the coach. He should sign the deal any day now.  _

_ Anyways, stay safe and productive in bustling Sendai! Don’t forget to take breaks every once and a while to remind yourself of how much you love me. I do it all the time!  _ **_I_** **_love_** **_you!_**

_ Forever yours (with interruptions),  _

_ Your devoted wife, Tooru  _

* * *

Iwaizumi shuts and locks his apartment door behind him and smiles, sinking down to sit on the kitchen counter and kick his legs like a happy child. His work friends are awesome. His new apartment is great. Life is really, really good. He’ll change out of his uniform and join them at Terushima’s in a few minutes.

He shoots a text to Oikawa while he sits there, saying good morning. He doesn’t respond right away; maybe today is a day off for him. Iwaizumi abandons staring at the open message screen and opens up his contact list—he’s going to call Sato and see what he’s up to, see if he’ll take him out fishing sometime soon. 

It would be great to see him in person. The last time was in Djibouti. 

The line rings once, then beeps.  _ “We're sorry, but you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel this is in error, please check the number dialed and try again.” _

Huh? 

Iwaizumi double-checks the number, moving instead to just manually type it in. 

Ring. Beep.  _ “We're sorry, but you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer—” _

He just hangs up. That’s...weird. Sato would have told him if he changed his number. He would have. He wouldn’t have just...disappeared. 

He wouldn’t. 

Would he? 

Oh, well. It’s been a few months, it can wait some more. He’ll try to get ahold of Chiasa, maybe, and then he can get Sato’s new number. 

Iwaizumi slides off the counter and moves to get ready for drinks, striding into the bedroom and shucking his uniform off in exchange for simple jeans, his old undershirt from the service, and a hoodie. His dog tags clink against his wedding ring while he adjusts the collar and tucks them back, and Iwaizumi catches himself smiling at his reflection when he twists the ring lovingly. 

It’s not long before he’s shutting the door to the apartment once more and jogging down the steps, his hands shoved into his pants pockets. His stout old landlady is in the little front room and waves at him over her newspaper. Iwaizumi waves back. 

“Oh, wait, Iwaizumi-san, do you have a minute?” She ambles out of the room.

He turns around. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“The mailman came by and tried to put this in your box, but it didn’t quite fit.” She passes him an overstuffed manila envelope. 

_ Sato Chiasa _ , the return address reads. 

Huh. He wouldn’t have to look her up after all. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Iwaizumi says, heading back upstairs. He had time to open it up before going to drinks. 

Unlock door. Look to the left, right. Open door. Look to the left, right. Step in. Close door. Lock it. 

Once he’s been through his security routine, Iwaizumi leans against the counter and pops the envelope open. 

Out falls two letters and a single dog tag just like his own.  _ SATO IZUMI, JAPAN MSDF.  _

Iwaizumi’s hands begin to shake and he has to turn away, fingering the tag and the strong chain. 

His  _ wife  _ sending him a single tag could only mean one thing. 

Iwaizumi finally musters up the strength to check the letters: one in unfamiliar, delicate handwriting and one in familiar, blocky handwriting. 

He looks at the more familiar one first. 

_ Iwaizumi, _

_ I’ve never been good with words. I don’t know what to say here other than I loved you. You meant more to me than anyone ever did. Maybe more to me than my wife. You understood me. You knew what it was like.  _

_ I hope you manage to be stronger than I was. I don’t think I was ever cut out for this. But you were, from the start. Use that strength to reach out, before you get like me.  _

_ Your bunkmate,  _

_ Sato _

This...no,  _ no _ , no no no no  **_no_ ** . 

He doesn’t set the note down—he holds it close to his heart—but he picks up the second letter and skims it. 

_...May 7th...funeral was several months ago...never knew how bad it was…out of nowhere…Izumi's unfortunate accident...just too much to bear…He promised he would tell me one day why he was hurting so bad, but he never did...You meant so much to him…I don’t know what to do with these…I figured you were the only one who would know…The only one he trusted…  _

And just like that, the wind in Iwaizumi’s lungs leaves. He doesn’t dare breathe, doesn’t dare open his lips because he’ll surely scream. 

It was a lie. It was all a lie—Sato never told Chiasa, and he  _ lied _ to get Iwaizumi to tell Oikawa. He was trying to help him. 

And what did Iwaizumi do to help in return? The last thing he told him to do was to shut the fuck up. 

He takes his trembling fingers and puts the single dog tag around his neck to rest next to his two. He stacks the letters neatly and holds them back against his heart. 

Iwaizumi takes out his phone, following only instinct as he reaches out for the only lifeline he has. 

Ring. Click.  _ “Buenos días, Iwa-chan.”  _

Silence. Suffocating silence as the oxygen and carbon dioxide mingle in his lungs and he’s too scared to exhale. 

_ “...Hajime?”  _

And he finally opens his lips, letting the ache seep out in sharp sobs and tumbling words as he reaches out. 

Because what more can he do except reach out? What else is left except to reach out? 

Oikawa’s reassurances mean very little, but he reaches back. 

They reach together. 

Iwaizumi’s reminded of how black and dark the Gulf was at night, when half the ship had gone to sleep in their quarters and the other half were on sleepy duty. It would be so easy to slip underneath the surface of that salty, oil-and-blood-tainted water. It was easy to forget the dangers when surrounded by joy and pride and superficiality.

If only he had reached into the black in time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _fun facts:_ (is it even appropriate for me to do a fun fact section here?)  
> \- so, you see why sato is a plot device. he'll keep reappearing as he contributes to iwa's character development.  
> \- the author cried like eight times while writing this  
> \- the author is incapable of using any other literary device than dramatic irony, she should really improve that  
> \- the gun iwa and oikawa use is almost the same model of james bond's gun. license to kill, haha, hem, uh.   
> \- the first time iwa met our lovely bisexual bartender terushima, he punched him for flirting with him. no more flirting occurred after that  
> \- oikawa usually hates doing sappy speeches to iwa because they've always been more for nonverbal communication, or just left sappy speeches as a joke. but he can pull them out when needed.   
> \- Kageyama Tobio (18) (EMT Student And _Civillian_ ) is now in training school with, you guessed it, hinata and yachi  
> \- there will be a happy ending to this story, or at least a hopeful one. the author promises you that.
> 
> and so. after that rollercoaster of events i just took you on, how are you feeling? how was your week? comments, suggestions, corrections, salutations, let me know <3


	5. i close my eyes and see your pretty smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _retrospect /ˈretrəˌspekt/_ : (n.) something Iwaizumi Hajime (22) (EMT-A, Sendai EMS) (Petty Officer Third Class Hospital Corpsman And Marksman, Reservist) keeps looking back towards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man. i am sorry for this majority-pain chapter. but there will be growth!! there will be!! next chapter will be more hopeful as we tie up lots of loose ends and open up some new threads, too. but, for now, enjoy (?).
> 
> (cw: mention of vomit, mention of gambling addiction, very brief discussion of suicidal ideation)

Time slides away from Iwaizumi like in that one painting with the melting clock. Who fucking painted that? Whoever it was, they did it accurately. That’s pretty much the only way he’s able to describe it. 

He wakes up and lays in his bed, wishing it were a shitty little aluminum bunk on a ship in the middle of the Gulf of Aden instead with Sato noisily rolling around on top. Oikawa calls Iwaizumi and talks to him for hours, forces him to get up and eat something, watches his grainy virtual figure eat a bowl of cereal and then, later, he throws it up. 

It’s pathetic. Iwaizumi knows it’s pathetic. But, in some strange way, he feels like acknowledging the paralyzing pain of it forms some sort of memorial for Sato, even though his funeral was months ago. It would feel wrong for him to continue on with life like nothing happened. 

Sato. Sato  _ Izumi _ . It was strange to see his given name on his tags or in the letter Chiasa sent. Sato was just Sato, and they both agreed they wouldn’t use their given names around each other because Izumi and Iwaizumi were too similar for it to not be “weird.” 

Was that conversation really so long ago? How weird would Sato feel about all  _ this? _ This...memorial?

He doesn’t even think about his job—his job that he’s only spent a  _ month _ in—for at least three days. In the haze of everything, he must have called in sick, because the Captain keeps texting him and checking in on his health. He may well be sick, honestly. Sick to see how completely  _ useless  _ Sato’s sacrifice was. All that work he put in the ship’s deck, day in, day out, just to make sure they ran through the waters smoothly. Enduring harsh and violent discipline from Mizoguchi over the smallest of things. Sand in their boots, in their eyes, in the folds of their fatigues that never came out in the wash. The  _ bullet wound _ and the drama of it all. 

To have him slip away without ever being able to say goodbye or even  _ know  _ something was wrong. 

Iwaizumi saved his life once, but didn’t save it when it really mattered. He was off having fun with his honeymoon, playing with guns and wine and all the things that were so superficial, completely oblivious to the deep-running ache that drove Sato to his death. Sato didn’t even do anything wrong—he wasn't the epitome of morals, but he sure never did anything that required this kind of punishment.  _ Iwaizumi _ was the pirate killer.  _ Iwaizumi _ was the damaged goods. If anyone should—

The point was, Iwaizumi didn't understand. He didn't get how he fit into this equation, how long Sato had been feeling that way, what must have been going through his head, how healthy his relationship with his own spouse was, what kind of stones were thrown at him over and over until he finally buckled over and broke. 

Why?  _ Why?  _ It just didn’t make any  _ sense _ . 

It all made Iwaizumi sick to think about. It must have been too much for Chiasa, too, because her letter said she had moved back in with her parents, didn’t want to see or speak to Iwaizumi, and pretty much abandoned anything that reminded her of her late husband. As far as she was concerned, he was KIA. No one from the JMSDF contacted her, apparently, though the pension abruptly stopped flowing into her account. 

They were failed. The whole lot of them had been failed. Iwaizumi is furious for about an hour and then steps back to realize that this wasn’t really a surprise at all. The government didn’t really give a shit about them—two enlisted men who saw and did things they were promised they didn’t have to see or do. 

It all makes him sick. 

* * *

_ Dear Mrs. Beekhof, _

_ I write this letter with a very heavy heart. I am not sure if you were ever informed, but Petty Officer Sato, for whom your son was named, has died.  _

_ I know he is watching over and protecting your family just as fiercely as he did while he was with us. I am at a loss for words at the moment. _

_ I wish I had more to say.  _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Hajime Iwaizumi _

* * *

The Captain starts coming by with the food that either he or Ukai makes for the crew every evening. Iwaizumi isn’t sure what spurs it, but it seems like it won’t end anytime soon. By the fifth day of his absence from work and the third day of the Captain delivering food, Iwaizumi lets him come inside his apartment upon his insistence. 

Everything’s actually immaculate and neat in there—it’s nothing to be ashamed of. He hasn’t lost his military fastidiousness. But he probably smells horrible, probably smells vaguely like puke and sweat and mourning. 

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Sawamura asks after several beats of near-silence, filled only with Iwaizumi picking hesitantly at the container of rice and some sort of stew he brought over. It’s good, salty and warm, and it doesn’t hurt Iwaizumi’s raw throat when he swallows it. 

He stops mid-chewing. 

“I mean, are you—it’s been a week since you last came to the station,” he clarifies, looking highly uncomfortable as he sits across the table from Iwaizumi. Huh. A week. Time is an illusion. “I don’t mean to pry, but it’s my responsibility to make sure everybody’s doing okay.” 

_ Responsibility _ . The Captain checks up on him. Why couldn’t  _ he  _ have? Why couldn’t Iwaizumi have done that?

“Bokuto’s really worried about you,” he tacks on, chuckling nervously a little bit. “He was thinking you had ditched drinks because you didn’t want to be ‘bros.’”

Iwaizumi snorts—he can’t help it. “Nossir, I, uh.” 

He stops mid-thought and just _looks_ at Sawamura. He has this sort of...professional strength about him, vaguely military in nature, with a deep tenor and muscled build. But Iwaizumi knew his authority didn’t come from the blood, sweat, and tears of naval promotion, even though he was Captain—it came because of ability and knowledge of his field, and though there was a chain of command, Captain was only really a title and he was a civilian. Yet, it’s easy for Iwaizumi to just imagine him as a military commanding officer. Mizoguchi, but better, less rough on the edges. Kinder. 

But he outranks him. And that's a very important distinction to make.

He looks concerned—genuinely concerned—but he also looks slightly suspicious. It probably looks bad to be skipping out on work after only a month since his hiring. 

Iwaizumi pauses and collects himself, then says, “A friend of mine died.” 

“Oh.” Sawamura’s eyes widen and the suspicion in his eyes recedes like the tide, quick and sweeping. “I am so sorry, Iwaizumi.” 

“It’s okay,” he says without any thought. 

“When’s the funeral?” he asks, contemplative and sympathetic. 

“It, uh,” Iwaizumi winces. “It turns out he died two months ago. I only found out, y’know, last week.” 

“Oh. Oh, man, that’s awful,” the Captain sighs. “You guys were close?” 

“Yeah. We were close.” Iwaizumi gulps and continues, “He was my bunkmate while I served in Africa.” 

Sawamura doesn’t break his gaze with him once, like Iwaizumi expects. He doesn’t shy away from the mention of the military. “I can’t imagine how painful that must be. I am so sorry.” 

“Thank you,” he murmurs and takes a breath. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to work, I just—well, there’s no excuse for that, but the time just...got away.” 

Sawamura shakes his head. “No, don’t apologize. Ukai and I were worried, but now that I know, it’s understandable. Take all the time that you need.” 

“Are you sure it’s okay? I’ve only been working for a month.” 

“Uh, yeah, it’s okay. We’re short-staffed, so Ukai wouldn’t fire you, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Oh, good,” he breathes. Losing his job would be very bad right now. He’ll need to apologize to the Chief anyhow.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks. 

He thinks, then realizes there really  _ is  _ nothing he can do. If the funeral were months ago, there’s literally nothing to do. “Nossir, it’s alright. I’ll come in tomorrow.” 

“Okay, if you’re sure.” He lowers a dubious brow. “And you really don’t have to call me sir or Captain or whatever. I mean, when Bokuto and Kuroo do it, they’re mostly pushing my buttons. You can call me Daichi-san, or just Daichi.” 

He probably recognizes the militariness of it all. Iwaizumi nods and replies reflexively, “Yessir.” 

Sawamura looks at him, head cocked, but doesn’t press. He seems to understand how Iwaizumi might find a semblance of normalcy in the rank and file of the system. “Well, if you need anything—anything at all—just ask.” 

Iwaizumi’s new commanding officer leaves, turning with another grim smile ghosting his face. 

* * *

He doesn’t make it into the station the next morning. He wakes up, showers, and puts on the  _ wrong uniform _ —he puts on his fatigues, for Chrissakes—then realizes he absolutely cannot make it into the station. He at least texts Sawamura and lets him know he’ll try for tomorrow. 

_ “Have you thought about going to visit his wife? I mean, you have her address.”  _

Iwaizumi sits back from another round of pushups—he’s trying to make up for the  _ week _ he spent in his apartment, slowly atrophying. “She said in her letter that she’s expressly removing herself from anything involving the military. I don’t think I’d be welcomed.” 

_ “But...there has to be something.”  _

“Yeah. Frustrating, isn’t it? I mean, if she had told me when it happened, I would have come. I would have helped with the funeral and helped sort out the military stuff and...there would have been some closure. Y’know?” 

Iwaizumi is surprised at how easily he can talk about this now. But Oikawa  _ knows _ all the gritty details, and that makes it easier. He knows about the mission, knows about how hard it is sometimes to function, knows because he saw it with his own eyes.

He sighs. “It’s just funny. Because he  _ told _ me he had told Chiasa about the mission, and that it helped him, and that I should tell you. But that wasn’t true. He was—I guess he was trying to help me, to get me to tell you. I guess he thought he couldn’t tell Chiasa. But I never questioned that and I should have.” 

_ “Hajime, I’m not sure there was much you  _ could _ do.”  _

“I know. But it—I still think about it. The last time I talked to him was  _ that night, _ and I hung up on him and told him to shut the fuck up. It was so selfish.” 

Oikawa’s tone changes.  _ “Wait. Wait, he called me that next morning, what was it, May 6th?”  _

Iwaizumi freezes. “I forgot he did that. May 6th, that was—that was the day before he…” 

_ “He was telling me about you and that day, the mission, but he said something weird at the end. I didn’t think anything of it—”  _

“What did he say?” Iwaizumi thunders. His last words. He needs to know his last words. 

_ “I don’t—I don’t really remember, but he apologized to you. I think he said he was sorry and said he wished that things turned out better.”  _

He reached out. He  _ reached out _ . 

_ “I’m sorry. God. Hajime, I’m sorry, I didn’t think anything of it.”  _

Iwaizumi’s immediate reaction is to be angry with Oikawa, angry that he hadn’t told him sooner, because maybe he could have talked him out of it. Maybe.  _ Maybe.  _

But what would be accomplished by being angry at him? It wouldn’t bring him from Argentina and it sure as hell wouldn’t bring Sato back from the dead. 

“I...wish I had known, Tooru, but there wasn’t really any way you could have understood that without context.” He takes a few steadying breaths. “You two didn’t even know each other. I don’t want you to bear any responsibility for this.” 

_ “Still.”  _

“Still.” 

_ “I want to be there with you so bad right now—”  _

“Don’t finish that. You can’t afford to be gone right now. Sato’s dead, has been for two months, and the only thing you could do here would be to just...be here. You’re in the middle of the pre-season. I would be holding you back by asking you to come, and that would honestly hurt me more than anything else. To know that I was holding you back for you to just  _ be  _ here with no real purpose.” 

_ “But would it not be helpful for me to just...be? Y’know? Be there with you?”  _

He considers this carefully, then says, “Not at the expense of your career.” 

_ “What the hell are we going to do, Hajime? We’re  _ married.  _ I’m supposed to...it shouldn’t be about my career.”  _

“But it  _ is _ about your career. Don’t act like it isn’t. Please don’t make this any harder than it already is, okay? I know how you feel about this. We talked about it.” 

_ “I mean the future. What about the future? And I know we  _ talked  _ about it, but I...I don’t know if I can wait to retire before living with you full-time.”  _

Iwaizumi actually laughs, feeling more bitter by the minute. “I knew that, Tooru. You think I didn’t? I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t think I could handle it.” 

_ “...Do you not...miss me? Like I miss you?”  _

God, he always has to make it about him. “Of course I do.” 

_ “Then why isn’t this a bigger deal? I thought...I thought this  _ whole thing _ showed that I should have been there for you.”  _

“You probably should have. But I knew you wouldn’t be. I knew. So please, stop.” 

And Iwaizumi doesn’t know how to act. He isn’t disappointed because he  _ knows how Oikawa is.  _ This was just part of the deal. He wouldn’t be there sometimes when Iwaizumi needed him. He put the career first. Iwaizumi could never blame him for that. Shit, Iwaizumi would feel  _ worse _ if Oikawa sidelined his career for him, because it means so much to him. 

Why’d they  _ do  _ this? 

_ “Hajime…”  _

“I’m, uh. It’s early over there. You don’t have to feel obliged to stay on the line.” 

Iwaizumi moves to start situps when Oikawa says nothing, line faintly static. 

_ “Hajime, if you ever...felt compelled to take your own life, and I didn’t know because I was off having a grand time playing volleyball and I wasn’t  _ there  _ with you, then I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”  _

Iwaizumi feels himself crumple just a little bit inside. So that’s what this was about. Why didn’t he just  _ say _ that instead of bitching for the last ten minutes? “Tooru, I’m not—no. I’m not planning on anything like that and I never have. You’d be the first to know if...if I were.” 

_ “I worry about you so much.”  _

“Please don’t. I’m alright right now.” 

_ “Can I ask you a favor?”  _

Iwaizumi wants to roll his eyes. He’s finding new avenues to victimize himself. “Shoot.” 

_ “Could you maybe think about counseling? Or something of that nature?”  _

He holds in his urge to scoff; this is Oikawa’s way of providing for him from afar. He needs to feel useful. “Tell you what. I’ll think about it, okay? I can’t promise you I’d actually go, but I’ll think about it.” 

_ “That’s all I ask.”  _

“Okay, then.” 

_ “...Please don’t make me hang up, I hate doing that.”  _

“I know. Have a good day, babe.” 

Iwaizumi’s finger hovers over the red button and finally clicks it when Oikawa says nothing more. No  _ Iwa-chan _ . He hasn’t called him Iwa-chan in a full week. Yikes, that enough was an indicator of something seriously wrong. 

It’s not even ten minutes after he hangs up that Iwaizumi hears a knock at the door. The Captain with dinner. He had gotten reliant on that—he needs to stop doing that and start turning him away, for his own independence.

Iwaizumi tries to straighten his sweaty, longer-by-the-day hair and look slightly more presentable and swings the door open. Much to his surprise, it’s not his Captain—it’s someone else. A man with a slight build and silvery blonde hair holding a small container of food stands in his doorway, smiling brightly. 

“Hi. Iwaizumi, right?” He asks. 

And, for a moment, Iwaizumi sees Oikawa in his features—his smile, his fluffy hair, the tone of his voice. He knows he’s lonely. So, he lets himself imagine this stranger is Oikawa, and puts a little trust in him. 

“Yeah, that’s me,” Iwaizumi confirms, willing to open himself up enough to reveal his identity. 

Another blinding smile. “Great. I’m Sugawara Koushi, Sawamura Daichi’s roommate. Daichi got tied up with something at the station, so he sent me over to drop this off.” 

“Oh, uh. Thanks. That was really nice of you,” Iwaizumi murmurs as he accepts the still-warm container. Jeez, a roommate doing his errands? 

“Want some company?” Sugawara places his now-empty hands on his hips. He doesn’t look uncomfortable at all—in fact, he looks completely confident. 

Iwaizumi chuckles somewhere from the back in his throat. “Is that a request or a demand?” 

“Only a request. I like making friends. Plus, I bought some scratchers on the way over here, and I tend to have much better luck when I play with others.” He holds up five scratch-off lottery tickets, the two hundred yen ones you buy at the vendors. “Would you have me for, say, ten minutes or so?” 

“Sure.” Iwaizumi shrugs and lets him in, seeing no particular downside to this. Oikawa probably wouldn’t be thrilled at the notion of a pretty guy like him in his apartment, but this didn’t really feel flirtatious. It felt more like a house call. 

Yeah. A house call. The Captain sent him over to check on him and probably was going to make him stay to see if he eats everything. 

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” Sugawara gestures to the completely bare walls and sparse furniture and grins cheekily. 

Iwaizumi actually laughs now as he sits down at the kitchen table and starts to eat. “Yeah, yeah. I need to go shopping and make this place look actually lived in.” 

“Y’know, Daichi and I really enjoy decorating.” 

“Sawamura-san? Decorating?” Iwaizumi can’t contain surprise at that one. Iwaizumi also doesn’t miss the way Sugawara says  _ Daichi and I,  _ like they’re a couple or something. 

Sugawara nods. “Mm-hm. There’s a lot to Daichi underneath that stern exterior.” 

“Guess so.” Iwaizumi pauses from the noodles in the container. “And you guys are roommates?” 

“Well, we live together, so I guess that makes us roommates, yes.” Another blinding smile. “I’m doing student teaching at the kindergarten down the road from the station, so we figured if we had similar commutes, why not split rent?” 

“Oh, so you’re a teacher?”  _ Oh, so you two are gay _ , he succeeds in  _ not  _ saying. What a trip that would be, if he were—

“Yep. First gay teacher in the history of that school! Pretty progressive, huh?” 

Iwaizumi gawks, a noodle hanging halfway out of his mouth. “No shit.” 

“Nope. Daichi’s my boyfriend, but I could tell you gathered that the moment I walked in here. Is that a problem?” 

“Uh, n-no,” he stammers, still reeling with the fact that his commander is gay. Might as well come out, then, maybe it’ll put both of them at ease. “I’m—I’m married, actually. To a guy.” 

“Really?” Sugawara lights up. “Wow! Well, Daichi was a little wary of saying anything to you, given that you’re kindof a manly man.” 

“Pffft, well, he’d be incorrect.” The noodles, all of a sudden, taste a lot better. 

“You’d be surprised at many of the guy’s sexualities in the squad. It’s practically statistically impossible.” Sugawara leans on his palms. “Anyways, so, your husband. Is he a foreigner? How’d you get married?” 

“He’s from here—I went to high school with him—but he’s an expat. He lives in Argentina now, to play volleyball for their Olympic team. We got married two months ago while I was staying there with him.”  _ Only a week after Sato died. _

“Wow, that’s quite the party story.” 

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” he hums. Even though he’s slightly upset with Oikawa currently, he’s still incredibly proud to be able to tack  _ Olympian  _ onto his name. 

“Is it hard? Being so far away?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Iwaizumi nods and puts the lid on the container as he finishes. “But it’s just part of the deal, y’know?” 

“I see.” Sugawara shifts to pull the scratchers out of his jeans pockets as soon as Iwaizumi puts the food container to the side. “Feel like playing?” 

“Uh. Sure,” Iwaizumi agrees, feeling a little whiplash from the subject change. 

“Here, have three.” He passes the brightly-colored cards over to him, along with a fifty-yen coin. “Good luck.” 

“Good luck,” Iwaizumi parrots. It’s been so long since he’s done a scratcher. His parents weren’t fond of gambling so he never really bought lottery tickets, but Matsukawa liked them in high school. He’d shove them in his textbooks and smuggle them into their lunch breaks. 

“I really like scratchers, y’know? They show how much chance has an impact on our lives,” Sugawara hums as he scratches away, revealing characters that didn’t correspond with the prize code. “See, this one was bad. But it also could have had a million yen in it.” 

Iwaizumi narrows his brows, trying to make sense of what Sugawara is saying as he starts scratching at his own cards. He reveals the matching character and grins victoriously. “Oh, shit, here’s two hundred. Recoup your loss on this one.” 

Sugawara waves his hand. “Nope, you’ll keep them! Go on, don’t stop, you’re on a roll!” 

Iwaizumi cocks a brow and keeps scratching. 

“It probably sounds like I’m making some sort of weird allegorical speech to inspire you during your period of mourning, but I just legitimately like scratchers. Daichi says they’re a waste and that I’m an addict, but I disagree. They’re fun. You don’t have to put much into them to get a lot out, and you don’t win halfway.” Sugawara pauses when he reveals his second card. “Woo, two hundred on this one, too! And you’re kindof an all-or-nothing type of guy, aren’t you, Iwaizumi-san?” 

Iwaizumi pauses from his scratching off a dud. “Uh, I guess.” But that was true. Iwaizumi didn’t do things halfway, whether it was volleyball, marriage, or killing pirates. “Nothing on this card.” 

“Ah, well, wins and losses come hand in hand. Try your last one.” Sugawara waits for him, eyes intent and engaged. 

He scratches off one, two, three, four— “Oh my God, wait, I think I won something.” 

Sugawara’s eyes light up. “Iwaizumi-san! Holy shit! Yes! That’s 50,000 yen!” Sugawara leaps up from the table, absolutely thrilled. “Come down and cash these with me, would you?” 

Iwaizumi pauses, unsure if he wants to leave his little cage of an apartment, unsure if he wants to move out of the sepulchre, unsure if this stroke of luck is enough of a sign to get up and out. 

He does, actually. Fuck it. Iwaizumi stands up and lets Sugawara lead him out, thinking about games of chance all the while. 

* * *

He returns to work the next day with a wad of cash in his wallet, strangely refreshed. He makes a formal apology to the Chief, which he immediately dismisses over the end of his rapidly-burning cigarette, and gets back to doing his job. 

He makes up for missing the drink night, too, upon Bokuto’s insistence, even though he ditched him to throw a ton of money on a table and start an Uno game with what looks to be the most pissed-off firefighter Iwaizumi’s ever seen (what was his name? Sakusa?). So, here Iwaizumi finds himself, in the sketchiest bar he’s been in since bootcamp. But the bar’s been a good thing for him and the guys. The beer is cheap and plentiful and the company is pretty good, all things considered. The busyness of it all keeps him from getting too deep inside his head. 

“Hey, I’ll buy you a drink,” the Captain says as they sit down at the bar. 

“No way,” Iwaizumi says. “If anyone needs to be buying drinks tonight, it’s me. You didn’t have to check up on me this week, I really appreciate it.” 

“Nonsense, I’m still buying you a drink,” Sawamura persists. “Terushima actually has decent liquor if you know how to ask.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, he’s got this cognac that’s really something else. Want one?” 

Iwaizumi feels the sudden urge to bolt. That’s his and Sato’s drink. But he needs to stick it out. He needs to finish a normal day with having a normal night. “Oh, uh. Maybe not something so s-s-strong.” He winces at his anxious stutter. “Maybe a beer?” 

“Yeah, absolutely. Terushima!” He calls down to the bartender, busy lighting his own cigarette and—is he putting water in that liquor bottle?

“Alright, alright, coming. Bourbon for Daichi and…?” Terushima asks, eyeing Iwaizumi. 

“Whatever’s on tap,” Iwaizumi manages to say smoothly. He’s okay. Not a big deal. 

“Gotcha.” Terushima clicks his tongue in acknowledgement (or just to show off his piercing—he still flexes his muscles and bears his feathers around Iwaizumi, as if he weren’t married and as if Iwaizumi didn’t punch him out for it three weeks ago. Or maybe  _ because _ he’s married and he punched him out for it three weeks ago.) He reaches under the bar and pulls out a wide bottle that looks a little too light to be high-quality. 

“Not that one,” the Captain scolds, rolling his eyes in a  _ what-do-you-take-me-for  _ expression. 

“Just checking to see if you were paying attention, Cap.” Terushima winks after his failed cheat and pulls out a darker bottle to fill up a stout glass with a round ice cube inside. He then fills up a tall glass of beer and slides them to the two medics. “Enjoy.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Iwaizumi nods to the Captain when he leans on the bar next to him, tasting the beer, sweet and cheap but nice and cold. 

“Anytime, man.” He looks into his own glass, clatters the ice against its walls, then turns to Iwaizumi directly. “I hope yesterday Suga wasn’t too...He can be—” 

“He was great. Don’t worry. I needed it,” Iwaizumi chuckles. “That was nice of you. Sending him.” 

“Oh, I didn’t send him.” Sawamura grins and shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. It was all his idea. He’s now dead-set on decorating your apartment.” 

Iwaizumi smirks and takes a chance, deciding to fraternize with him a little more. “Him? You mean  _ you? _ ” 

Sawamura laughs aloud, deep and bright. “Okay, okay, you got me there. Are you okay with that? We like to have a project. Our apartment’s been redone...God, maybe three times now, and Suga  _ will _ do it again if we don’t pick somewhere else to wreak havoc.”

“Shit, yeah, I don’t mind. I really have no idea about that kinda stuff, I’d take all the help I can get.” Iwaizumi feels himself loosening as he keeps drinking. “My husband will probably want the last word on everything, though.” 

“Sure, I get that.” 

They stand there, slightly awkwardly, as they drink some more. Sawamura clearly has something to say, but he’s exercising some sort of restraint. He probably wants to ask about military stuff. Everyone’s curious. Iwaizumi hates that, just a little, but it is what it is. He’s the newbie. He has to do a little ass-kissing, put up with some bullshit. 

“Go ahead and say what you like,” Iwaizumi encourages the pressed-lip Captain, lending an old Sato-ism. “You don’t need pretense.” 

“Oh. Okay,” he says quickly. “Um. Well, I was just curious about...marriage.” He nearly whispers that last part. “How’d you—how does that work? If I wanted to?” 

Iwaizumi leans back and feels the muscles in his back ease with relief. He wasn’t expecting that topic. He felt fine talking about that. “You mean the logistics of it?” 

Sawamura’s ears tint pink. Jeez, he actually  _ is  _ curious. “Yeah.” 

“Well, it means Tooru and I are legally married on Argentinian papers, or American papers, or...any country that’s got gay marriage legalized, really. He and I jointly own the apartment in San Juan, and we’ve got some of our assets shared there. I don’t really know exactly how it works, we have an attorney.” Iwaizumi sighs. “Point is, it’s different  _ here _ . We’re—we’re  _ roommates _ , yeah?” 

Sawamura smiles slightly as he emphasizes that last part, catching the reference. “I understand.” 

“So it’ll never be quite right. It’s more of a symbolic thing to us, I guess. But Tooru’s also a foreign national, so he has more leeway than I do.”  _ In more ways than one _ , he thinks. Oikawa’s always been the one who’s the free spirit, who traveled and  _ liked _ it, who liked spending time away from home and didn’t like anything anchoring him down.

Iwaizumi was the grounded one, on the other hand. The responsible one. The one who hated being so far away from home in his job, who wished they could have more of a  _ normal _ relationship, one with only one house and one country and unified motivations.

But they’d still do anything for each other. Part of their agreement that they made the night before their wedding was that Oikawa would never have to feel guilty for utilizing his talent and that Iwaizumi would never have to feel guilty for wanting to be back home, where he can speak the language and get a job. They would make do with alternating visits in the countries, getting visas if they needed to, and spending the rest of the time on the phone.

No one is mad at one another. No one is really, truly upset. Things are just...less than optimal sometimes. It has to be this way, though, for both their own happiness.

“All that aside. I don’t know, maybe we got married too young. Not to say I regret it at all. But I felt like I needed something...permanent, I suppose, after being deployed. Something with direction, and marriage seemed like the best choice. But sometimes things are weird, being long distance,” he murmurs, then snaps his head up. “Sorry, I’m already talking too much.” 

Sawamura waves his hands placatingly. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t—I don’t know anyone like us that’s married, so, uh. Yeah. Any advice will be well-received.” 

“I got you.”

There’s another period of pregnant silence as they sip their drinks, slowly coming to closer understandings of one another while Iwaizumi tries not to think too hard of reasons why his marriage is weirder and more complex than he thought it would be two years ago.

Iwaizumi can’t take it anymore. He pulls himself out of his head by asking, “So. How long have you and Sugawara been together?” 

Sawamura takes another swig. “Year and a half.” 

He cocks a brow and smiles. “And you’re thinking about popping the question?” 

“Uh, not now,” he rushes out. “Not yet. But maybe? Maybe one day?” He squeaks out, endearingly unconfident. “Just...keeping all the options open.” 

“Of course.” Iwaizumi purses his lips as he tries to think of something inspiring to say. He never thought he’d be in the position of relationship-advice-giver. “I know it seems dumb to do it, probably, considering...y’know, it’s not legally recognized, and if you guys already live together, then it’s not like it changes much for you. But it meant a lot to me to get married. And you and Sugawara already seem like a really good match. I can already tell you’re suited for it.”  _ More so than Tooru and I probably are. But who is, really?  _ “It’s different than you think it will be, but it’s good. Even if it isn’t a perfect fit, it’s good, if you love each other. And I’m pretty sure you and Sugawara totally do.”

Sawamura’s face goes from an impressive pale shade to a deep, deep red. “Thanks. Thanks, I needed to hear that.” 

“You’re welcome.” Iwaizumi feels a real grin spread across his face—genuine and pure in origin. He helped somebody. He twists his ring a little, feeling grateful, even though he and Oikawa might be in a weird place right now. “You have any questions in particular?” 

“Um. Yeah, actually. I was wondering about—” 

Iwaizumi’s phone buzzes angrily on the bartop—Oikawa saying good morning. 

“Oh, uh, that’s the husband,” Iwaizumi laughs sheepishly. “He just woke up, probably. Hold that thought? I’ll be back in a minute.” 

The Captain nods as Iwaizumi takes the phone and his beer with him, going to answer it outside. Oikawa always has to come first.  **_good morning!!_ ** , the text says, with a picture of Kiki sleeping on his bare chest and Oikawa faking sleep with a half-open mouth, though it’s almost a smile. 

“Hey, Iwaizumi? Uh? My liquor license only reaches to the door—” 

Iwaizumi ignores Terushima’s urges and cuts him off by opening the door because he knows they’re bullshit and he needs the cool of the glass to keep him grounded and  _ Oikawa comes first _ . 

He taps the phone icon, surrendering himself to the all-too-familiar sound of the line beeping and ringing. 

_ “Buenos días!”  _

“Buenos días,” he says back. “How was your night?” 

_ “Pretty good! How was your day?”  _

“Eh, pretty good.”

_ “Good, Iwa-chan. I know you’re busy, but I just wanted to tell you I love you and that I’m thinking about you and that last night I used the wedding present rice cooker successfully…”  _

He rambles on while Iwaizumi almost melts against the wall. He said the nickname. They’re okay. 

They’re going to figure this out. 

* * *

The days go by quicker than they should, but Iwaizumi isn’t complaining. A week turns into a month turns into half a year and Iwaizumi falls into a nice rhythm with the crew. Routines bring him comfort. Clock in at 0600. Clean the rigs, take inventory and re-stock, then calls and interfacility transfers with regular civilians that have relatively-regular medical problems (no one has chikungunya, at least). Work out in the weight room they have. Dinner in the galley. Clock out at 1800. Drinks or pool or darts with the guys, both fire and EMS, until the night winds down to the flicker of neon lights and Iwaizumi’s phone screen as he talks with Oikawa until he falls asleep. 

Iwaizumi and Oikawa make a point of talking every day—no exceptions, no excuses. And he  _ does _ it. Oikawa carves the time out for Iwaizumi every single day, and the letters come in from him at least twice a week. They talk more than they ever did before, even talking more than they did in high school. 

Part of that is the phone sex. Perhaps. Maybe. Whatever, they’re married. 

He starts going to counseling, too—a veteran’s place that he has to pay extra for because it’s on base and they don’t provide  _ shit _ —but it helps, surprisingly. It takes a while, but it helps. Oikawa’s always thrilled to hear he’s still going. 

Kageyama, coincidentally enough, ends up on their unit, along with two other rookie EMTs. One of them, Yachi, is a short blonde who flinches whenever Iwaizumi talks too loud, and another one, Hinata, bickers with Kageyama continually, but they make a good team. It’s strange to have his old kouhai in the same workplace as he is, but it feels like old times playing volleyball. 

Sato, the taste of cognac, and the memories of the Gulf take a backseat in his mind, filling rapidly with random medical facts, procedural details, and obscure tidbits about card games (thank you, Kuroo and Bokuto). That said, he’s reminded of it all when his tags jingle, or someone speaks in French or Arabic on TV, or when Pirates of the Caribbean is mentioned in the station, which is...more often than Iwaizumi thought it would be. 

He’s actually on a call when he has to think about everything full-frontal. 

“Iwaizumi-san,” his patient—a five-year-old male, suspected broken ankle, though he’s taking it in stride—squeaks from the stretcher, eyeing his name patch. “Iwaizumi-san, why do you wear a necklace if you’re a boy?” 

_ And _ he’s reminded of how much he hates pediatrics. He never had to do this on the Onami. He smiles, or at least tries to look unfazed. “This is a special kind of necklace. These are called dog tags.” 

“Dog tags?” He parrots back, eyes wide and curious. He reaches a hand out, asking to examine them for himself. 

Ugh. Iwaizumi  _ knows _ that any distraction he can use to keep the poor boy’s pain at bay should be taken advantage of, but he wished his fucking  _ tags  _ weren’t the distraction the boy picked. Why couldn’t it have been Iwaizumi’s stethoscope to play with, or the little teddy bear they kept in the cabinet next to the IV catheters, or, shit, even Iwaizumi’s phone?

“You wanna take a look?” Iwaizumi uses his free hand to pull off his chain from his neck. He had put Sato’s tag on there a long time ago to save space, so the three tags plunk metallically in the boy’s tiny palm. 

Iwaizumi is  _ acutely  _ aware of Kageyama driving in the front seat, and, since this isn’t an emergency case, the lack of sirens let him hear everything. 

“Hm,” the boy hums as if he knows what he’s looking at. “Iwa-izumi Haji-me,” he sounds out. “That’s you?” 

“That’s me.” 

“What’s  _ JAPAN MSDF _ mean?” 

“Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force,” he explains. “The numbers under that are my identifying code and then my blood type.” 

The little boy’s tiny round face lights up, only catching that first part. “You’re a soldier!” 

“I’m a  _ sailor _ . Soldiers work on land. I worked on a boat,” he clarifies. 

“Why’s your necklace have two thingies that have your name on it?” He picks at the second tag, astutely observing that they said the same thing. 

“Well.” Iwaizumi tries to figure out how he could explain this to him. “If...something bad were to happen to me, then my boss—my  _ commanding officer _ —would get one of the...thingies. The other one would stay with me.” 

The boy clearly does not understand this explanation. 

“It’s like...okay, do you have a dog at home?” 

“Mm-hm! Akira! She’s fluffy,” he adds, very serious. “Ouch,” he murmurs when Iwaizumi uses this opportunity to check the pulses over his ankle—the splint wasn’t cutting off any circulation. 

“Sorry, sorry. So, your dog has a collar in case she gets lost, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, it’s like that. That’s why they’re called dog tags. I keep one of them to wear in case I...get lost,” he settles on. 

He looks up towards Kageyama in the driver’s seat, who’s glancing back at him in the mirror. They exchange a nod—neither of them are particularly good at children. 

“I think I get it.” The kid moves on to just fiddle with the tags. “Shiny.” 

“Alright, you play with those, okay? We’ll be at the hospital soon. Your mom’s waiting for you there.” Iwaizumi squeezes his hand, trying to be reassuring. 

The kid doesn’t perk up at the mention of his mom at all, seemingly ambivalent, and instead has his complete focus on the tags. Iwaizumi’s okay with that, just so long as he’s satisfied with that explanation. 

“If you’re Hajime, who’s Sa-to I-zumi? And why’s he just have one thingie?” 

The money question. 

“Sato was a good friend of mine.” Iwaizumi doesn’t even make eye contact with the kid, too afraid he’ll see the tears collecting at the edges. “And he got lost.” 

“Oh,” the kid says, glances at the tags once more, and then drops them unceremoniously on the vinyl of the stretcher. “Do you have games on your phone?” 

* * *

_ Sato,  _

_ God, I write so many of these letters and I’ve got no idea what to do with them. Send me some inspiration when you feel like it.  _

_ Some kid at work today asked about your tag. Just when I think I’ve gotten over stuff, it hits me like a fucking freight train. You always liked kids, though, so I wasn’t mean to him or anything.  _

_ Imagine me with kids. What a disaster that would be. I always thought you’d be a good dad, though, and I know you said I’d want kids after you learned the triplets weren’t a real thing. But it seems kinda hard to imagine right now.  _

_ Anyways. Wherever you are, hope it was sunny today.  _

_ Your bunkmate,  _

_ Iwaizumi _

  
He folds up the letter and places it in the overflowing pile in his desk drawer.  __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahem. 
> 
> _fun facts:_  
>  \- in the theme of Viaje a Las Estrellas, the author takes a lot of inspiration of terushima's bartending/"business" style from a certain bartender from Abismo Espacial Nueve.  
> \- suga hoards his empty scratchers in a binder in his and daichi's apartment. one day he wants to do something artsy-fartsy with them but he just doesn't know how  
> \- daichi and ukai definitely have an unspoken rivalry about who can cook for the unit better  
> \- kuroo and bokuto had a short-lived rivalry about who could cook for the unit better. they've since been banned from the galley.  
> \- iwa does, in fact, have games on his phone 
> 
> okay HELLO THERE. thank you for making it this far and sticking with me! how did your week go? take a few nice, deep breaths. you're here with me each time you read my words, and i can already tell you i love you. comments, questions, suggestions, salutations...?


	6. the letter says the sailor's coming home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _closure /ˈklōZHər/_ : (n.) something that Iwaizumi Hajime (22) (EMT-A, Sendai EMS) (Petty Officer Third Class Hospital Corpsman And Marksman, Reservist) somewhat feels within reach of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reader, be advised, there are SWAGs and WAGs present, over. acknowledged?

“Iwaizumi!” Bokuto yells, even though they’re on the station’s sectional not more than a meter and a half away from one another. 

Kuroo and Hinata wince at the volume from their respective spots on the sectional—Kuroo’s head in Bokuto’s lap (PBC: _Platonic Bro Cuddling_ ) and Hinata with his legs up on the back of the cushions, which...there’s no way that’s comfortable after the crazy-ass night shift they had today. Kageyama sits in Iwaizumi's section, halfway leaning on him, pretty much asleep at this point and nearly drooling on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. 

“What’s up?” he dignifies it with a response, but he doesn’t look up from his phone. At least when it’s the night shift Iwaizumi can text Oikawa and he’ll actually respond, since it’s the middle of the day in San Juan. 

Bokuto groans when Kuroo elbows his stomach trying to roll over. “Tell us a war story, Iwaizumi.” 

He’s been through this routine so many times and rehearsed the responses with his counselor so many more times, so this isn’t so alarming. Bokuto loves hearing these. “What kind of war story?” 

“Funny war story.” 

Hinata peeps up, “Do those exist?” 

“Sure they do,” Iwaizumi responds, making the best of this. People get curious. It’s only natural for them to want to know something harmless. “Let’s see...uh, did I tell the story about how my bunkmate and I got busted for fishing in the middle of the night?” 

“No?” Kuroo flips around to hear better, elbowing Bokuto again in the process. “Explain.” 

“Well, we wanted to go fishing, which is something they would usually let us do if we weren’t on a mission. Like, you just let the line out really far and wait until it’s suddenly at a ninety degree angle and then you get a fish. Not that hard. We were in fishing waters, so it was natural.” 

Everyone nods despite probably not understanding the context. 

“But we were on a mission. So we waited until...I dunno, 0200, probably, and took our rod and reel out. We were also really drunk, I think, because Sato—sorry, that’s my bunkmate—he could never remember this story,” Iwaizumi laughs, making the rest of them laugh, too. “We had all this cognac lying around—anyway, different story. So we’re fishing in almost complete darkness. And Sato all of a sudden gets this massive mahi-mahi on the line. And we’re pulling it up, and it’s flopping against the hull, like _bam, bam, bam_ every three seconds so like...everyone in the lower decks could hear…” Iwaizumi starts trailing off, laughing and remembering how dumb it was. He and Sato were such idiots, but being an idiot was _fun_. “And we didn’t have a net or a gaff, so we just hoisted it with our bare hands to get it onto the deck. Like, actual wrestling with a fish.” 

Iwaizumi gesticulates as he talks, chuckling at all the right parts and explaining when they come across a term that doesn’t make sense to them. The men laugh and seem genuinely entertained by the foreign story, high off their asses from work, and Iwaizumi is glad to serve as a source of light-heartedness for once. 

“...and so we’ve got all these fish filets in a garbage bag but no way to preserve them, so we stuck it in the officer’s mess refrigerator, which...yeah, not the best of ideas, the whole fancy galley smelled disgusting. We had fishing privileges revoked for a full month and we had to clean the whole thing up, then got our asses kicked by our commanding officer.” 

“What were you guys usually punished with?” Kuroo asks, eyes flashing with curiosity. 

Kageyama perks up slightly, looking at Iwaizumi expectantly, like he’s trying to support him but doesn’t know how to. 

Iwaizumi shrugs, brushing them both off. “Eh, laps on the deck, physical punishment. Or, like, cleaning, or being yelled at. Sometimes my CO would make me do my marksmanship test over and over again until my shooting arm practically fell off.” 

“Wait. You were a _marksman?_ Like a sniper?” 

Iwaizumi winces. “Sniper and marksman are two different things, but yeah. I was a good shot, sometimes. That was all.” 

“That’s _such_ a flex, man,” Kuroo whistles. “Like, that’s _cool_.” 

He forces himself to remember some comebacks he had gone through in counseling. “I guess it could seem that way, sure.” 

“Deadeye Iwaizumi,” Bokuto hums, satisfied with the nickname. 

And Iwaizumi laughs because he knows he’s supposed to. He doesn’t refute or confirm anything. 

“Oikawa-san sent me this picture the other day,” Kageyama murmurs, peeling himself off the couch to show him his phone. 

It’s Oikawa at the range with that attendant who was his fan. He holds up a paper target with some really great hits mixed in there—no bullseyes, but certainly good enough to kill someone if he needed to. It was a picture Iwaizumi hadn’t seen before. 

Oikawa clearly took pride in it, like he takes pride in everything he does. Maybe it made him feel closer to Iwaizumi, helped him understand him better. He doesn’t recoil or shy away from the power, the potential, the implications of it all. 

For some reason, that makes Iwaizumi feel better. It makes him feel less like a menace to society. 

“Huh.” Iwaizumi looks at it closer. **_beat this, tobio-chan!_ **, he had captioned it. “Ignore him. I regret introducing him to riflery, he turned out to be really good at it.” 

“How can you stand being married to him?” Kageyama mutters, disheartened. “No offense.” 

Iwaizumi laughs. “He’s not quite as bad as he was in high school. It’s different.” 

“Is it really, though?” Kageyama turns on his vape pen and takes a few gentle puffs. 

Iwaizumi wants to swipe it away from him, wants to keep him away from vices, but knows that’s how he copes. Like how Iwaizumi copes with Oikawa. “It depends on the circumstance. He’s good to me, though. The shit he gave you isn’t who he really is.” 

He scowls as he blows off a thin stream of vapor. “That’s not true. He’s plenty mean to you sometimes. His pride’s just awful. How does it not get in the way of things?” 

“Because I love him, and he’s my husband,” Iwaizumi answers simply. 

A mix of _aaaaw_ ’s and _that’s so sweet_ ’s comes from the other side of the couch. 

Kageyama harrumphs and turns to take another puff, being a complete sourpuss. 

Iwaizumi smirks and ruffles his hair, whipping his phone back out. **_Don’t bully Kageyama, I’ll know._ **

**_(￣ω￣;)_ **

**_me?? bully tobio-chan?? i would never!!_ **

**_also unrelated but how would you feel if i surprised you by coming to visit after your reservist training_ **

Iwaizumi feels his heart clench as his acute desire to see his husband flares in his mind. 

**_I would feel like it wouldn’t be a surprise then lmao. You sure you could do that?_ **

**_already took time off!! you’re seeing me whether you like it or not iwa-chan!!! husband-chan!!! ☆ ～('▽^人)_ **

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and holds his phone to his chest for a moment, grinning like a dumbass in love. 

“Oh, Deadeye, you comin’ to breakfast after this?” Kuroo drawls. 

Great. It’s a nickname now. “Uh, sure, yeah, I don’t have any particular plans.” _Breakfast_ usually entails some sort of fast food and then beer at someone’s house, because _beer is a grain product, so it’s basically oatmeal,_ as Bokuto once famously put it. 

“Stop with the breakfast plans, I’ll make food.” The door to the lounge swings open, revealing a much-too-well-rested Captain, early for his shift. 0530. How does Sugawara even put up with that? “Good morning, everyone.” 

“Daichi-san! Good morning!” Hinata shoots up from where he had most definitely fallen asleep. 

Kuroo, on the other hand, doesn’t move a muscle. “G’mornin’.” 

Sawamura drops his coat on Kuroo’s stomach. “Be a good lieutenant and brief me.” 

Kuroo takes the coat and throws it at Bokuto. “Grandma with chest pain and drunk guy passed out on the street, then a nursing home abnormal lab.” 

“Nice. PCRs finished?” Sawamura traces with his eyes while Bokuto throws the coat at Hinata, who throws it at Kageyama, who finally throws it at Iwaizumi. 

He passes it back to his Captain. “They’re done,” Iwaizumi confirms. 

“Excellent, thank you. Everyone should be like Iwaizumi, okay? Do your goddamn PCRs.” He hangs his coat and moves towards the kitchen. “What are we having?” 

“Pancakes!” Bokuto bellows. 

“Did you buy eggs when I asked you to?” 

“...No?” 

“No pancakes, then.” 

“Fuck!” 

Sawamura turns back towards the sectional. “The floor’s open, what else are we having?” 

“Eggs,” Kuroo says, grinning like a bastard, as if that’s the funniest thing he’s ever said. Iwaizumi does snort, though. Idiocy is fun. 

Sawamura nearly punches him. “Oh my God. Why do I have to clarify this? What else are we having that _doesn’t include eggs?_ ” 

“Hashbrowns!” Hinata throws out there. 

Sawamura shrugs. “Okay, that can happen, but you guys have to peel potatoes. I need to handle some paperwork before the Chief gets in.” 

Kuroo practically rolls off the couch. “Alright, let’s go—” 

“Kageyama! I challenge you to a peeling contest!” Hinata blurts. 

“Oh yeah?” Kageyama roars. 

“Look at them go,” Bokuto murmurs, wide-eyed as he watches them scramble off. 

Iwaizumi laughs at them, running back and forth in the kitchen as they scrub potatoes like the world will end without them. “It’s ridiculous.” 

“Ah, to be young.” Kuroo cracks his twenty-three-year-old knuckles dramatically. 

Iwaizumi wants to make some sort of dry remark, but his phone buzzes urgently in his pocket. He pulls it out—a number he doesn’t recognize. Must be important at this hour of the morning. “Yeah, hello?” 

_“Hello, Aomori Boat Storage, is this Iwaizumi Hajime?”_

_Aomori?_ Iwaizumi nearly drops his phone—Bokuto, Kuroo, and Sawamura all give him weird looks. “Um. Yes, this is he.” 

The woman on the line sounds highly agitated, probably because she had to call right at opening. _“We’re calling to remind you that your rental fee is due next week and you’ve paid no advance.”_

“My what now?” 

_“Your storage rental fee on your sportfisher. It’s due.”_

“Sorry, I’ve never—” He pauses. 

Did Sato _leave him his boat?_

_“Sir?”_

“Who was the last person to pay the rent on the sportfisher?” Iwaizumi asks, trying to stay calm. 

_“Let me check the records.”_ The woman rustles around. _“A Sato Izumi paid the last fee.”_

That bastard. He can almost hear Sato’s laughter—Iwaizumi has to pay the rent now. 

“Ah, jeez,” Iwaizumi winces. “Okay, uh. This is kind of complicated. Can I call you back? The fee will get paid, I promise.” 

Boat storage lady doesn’t give a fuck. _“Sure.”_

“Great.”

Iwaizumi hangs up and takes a deep breath. Okay. He’d need to at least pay that rent, but the boat might not even be winterized. Was the storage place climate-controlled? What would he even _do_ with that boat? 

“Is...everything okay?” Kuroo asks. 

Iwaizumi looks up and realizes he, Bokuto, and Sawamura are all staring at him in varying degrees of concern. 

“Uh. Any of you know the best way to get to Aomori from here?” 

* * *

_Sato,_

_I cannot believe you. Leaving your boat to me? You knew I couldn’t fish worth a damn. And the rent on your storage place is ridiculous! And I have to pay the insurance! And the fucking slip rent, too! Much less the fact that she’ll need eighty kagillion repairs the minute she touches the water._ _  
  
_

_I suppose it’d be rude to sell your boat, considering you’re dead, but seriously. How am I gonna take care of your boat? Like, I remember some stuff from procedure and deck duty, but you were always the boatswain. Jeez. Thanks. Why couldn’t you have left me a massive inheritance you secretly had or something?_

_Hope it was sunny today._

_Your bunkmate,_

_Iwaizumi_

* * *

Aomori’s actually beautiful, the more time he spends there. There’s mid-Janurary snow on the ground and the wind off the bay bites, but it’s not a bad kind of bite. It’s just something with power. 

And, as soon as he finishes up with the business at the boat storage place—yes, it was climate-controlled, no, he didn’t have to winterize the boat, but it’d be good if he put her in the water this summer and let her crank—Iwaizumi finds Sato’s grave, which is actually not as hard as he thought it would be. It’s a family one, but the flowers placed in the holder are yellowing, dripping dying liquid onto the snow, and Iwaizumi can tell incense hasn’t been burned there for a good while. People cared, but they didn’t care that much. 

Iwaizumi replaced the flowers and the incense, lighting it and letting the fragrant smoke twist up into the perfectly blue sky. 

“Well. Never thought I’d be here,” Iwaizumi murmurs. “Better be grateful I care enough about you to take the train up here in the cold.” 

The grave doesn’t reply with some sort of joke or a punch to the arm or all the things Iwaizumi had come to love about his bunkmate. 

“Y’know, I only knew you for five months. Isn’t that wild? That’s...what is that, that’s like, two percent of my existence.” 

It was a _wild_ five months, though. The kinds of time that defy physics and seem to stretch on for eternity, the kinds of time where you _know_ your time together is limited and you _know_ the forces around you are dangerous and oppressive so you’re close from the beginning. 

“You took up every last bit of that two percent, though. Swear to God, you did.” 

Sato had taught him how to properly bait a hook, how to keep the African sand out of your boots, how marriage works, how to care for someone with a gunshot wound, how to resolve conflict and communicate and _trust_ , and how to move on after loss that feels unimaginable. Two percent. Two percent translated to lessons Iwaizumi knew he’d hold onto for the rest of his limited life. 

“I got all those letters I wrote to you.” He pulls the thick stack out of his jacket pocket, tucked safely in a manila envelope, just like Sato’s final letter arrived to him. “I don’t know what to do with them, so I suppose I’ll leave ‘em here. Maybe someone will pick them up after a while or something, since I know you’ve already read them.” 

He places it gently on the grave and stands up, brushing some snow from his pants. 

“Wish me luck at Reservist training next month. I’m making 8,100 yen a day for the five days and 4,000 a month for just being in it, so I guess that’s what I’ll pay your stupid boat rent with. I’ll hit some targets for you while I’m there, alright? Embarrass some senior officers.” 

He sticks his hands down deep into his jeans pockets, rocking on his heels just slightly. 

“I’ll come by again sometime soon. And I’ll come to the matsuri, if your family will have me.” 

Iwaizumi ducks his head and says a little prayer, then runs his hand through his hair. It’s grown out so much since they served together. He wonders if he’ll have to get it cut before training. 

“See you, man. Love you.” 

* * *

“So, five days?” Ukai asks, looking at the roster Sawamura had printed out. Iwaizumi’s name, usually indicated by _D.E._ (Deadeye, thanks, Bokuto), isn’t in any of the shift slots for Monday through Friday. 

Iwaizumi sits up, plank straight, in the chair opposite his desk. “Yessir.” 

He taps his cigarette on the ashtray. “You want the week off after? Can’t imagine bootcamp’s a holiday for you.” 

“Just five days would be alright, sir.” 

“I’ll give you the week off anyways. Isn’t your husband coming home? Take the time while I offer it,” Ukai grunts. 

If Sawamura was the kind, openly empathetic version of Mizoguchi, then Ukai was the informal, rugged version of Irihata. He holds just about as much power over Iwaizumi and the whole operation. But, he’s a little more loose, a lot more in touch with the men he commands. They’re in close quarters and they’re all relatively close in age—Ukai being the oldest, but still only thirty-five years old, aged further by cigarette smoke and the adrenaline that comes with the lights and the sirens. 

“Yessir. Thank you, sir.” Iwaizumi grips the edge of the chair, waiting for a _Sailor, you’re dismissed._

“I told you, you don’t gotta call me sir. I’m not that old,” he grumbles, puffing harder on his cigarette. 

“Yessir.” 

Ukai laughs and rolls his eyes. “Alright, kid. It’s 1720, go on and clock out, pack or whatever you gotta do. Are you leaving for Yokohama tonight?” 

“Yessir, I’ll take the train.” 

“Alright, well, be safe, good luck. We’ll miss you.” 

Iwaizumi freezes. _We’ll miss you._

He supposes he’s meshed into the squad, mostly. He goes for drinks and breakfasts and cuts up with the guys. But in that moment, he realizes that he’ll miss _them_ in those five days, too. 

He bows, back straight. “Thank you, sir.” 

* * *

The five days of training aren’t actually all that bad. The routine and rhythm of it all was familiar—exercises and PT in the mornings, ship work in the afternoons, logistical training in the evenings behind a desk. They needed to be prepared in case they’re deployed for disaster relief or, God forbid, combat. 

It was weird—the commanding officers running the show seem to _know_ who he is. Petty Officer Third Class Iwaizumi Hajime, retired pirate killer. His fatigues fit a little baggier on him than they used to and his chain has three tags on it, but it was all fine. People step out of the way for him. People maybe whisper about him. But he doesn’t care. He’s doing his job, passing all his tests with flying colors, with special commendations in his riflery and marksmanship skills. 

He tries not to let it bother him too much. Skills are skills, even if they’re too late. 

He finds time in the cramped bunks they’re shoved in to write a few letters, mostly just for commemoration. 

* * *

_Tooru,_

_I write this letter to you as I sit in the bunks at Reserves training. We’re working hard, but it’s good work. Feels like I’m accomplishing something._

_I’m thrilled to see you again after so long. I know we talk all the time, but I just can’t wait. I miss Kiki, too, and I’m glad you’re bringing her._

_Two months. I’m sorry that you have to come home because I know you don’t like it, but we won’t have to do anything you don’t want to, like see your parents or whatever. Living in the city in Sendai is different than how we grew up. A good different._

_Love,_

_Hajime_

* * *

_Sato,_

_Oh my God, I couldn’t rant to Tooru about this, but I am so goddamn achy. Did we really used to do this kind of exercise all the time? Like, what the hell? My groin is fucking pulled from the 10k. Right before I’m meeting up with my spouse, too. Ugh. Feels good though, to put in this kind of work again. And I know you’re thinking it, so I’ll just address it: no, it is not masochism._

_Anyways, everybody knows I’m that one guy who killed the pirate, but no one says anything, so that’s a little bit trippy. I have to go to the range every day and hit targets and apparently I’ll get a special commendation or something. Like, that’ll be so useful for when we do disaster relief, sure._

_Let me update you on Hayashi and Tanabe and Mizoguchi, since I’ve been able to hunt around a bit for info on them. The seamen are both about to finish their service terms—crazy, huh? Hayashi’s going to officer’s school, I shit you not. Tanabe’s coming home in a few months, though._

_I’m thinking about giving him your boat. I think you’d be chill with that. He was from around Aomori anyways and he’s a boatswain. He’d actually put her to use, while I legitimately can’t. So I hope you’re on board with that._

_Mizoguchi still works on the Onami, apparently. I heard he got promoted and he’s one of those hot-shot bridge guys now. But he knows what we all saw. Hopefully that’ll make him a better officer._

_The whole thing’s kinda boring, to tell you the truth. I miss the station and the guys. It’d be a whole lot more fun with you, but I know you weren’t ever hot on being in the Reserves to begin with, so it’s all okay._

_I hope it’s sunny._

_Your bunkmate,_

_Iwaizumi_

* * *

“I’m sorry you got stuck doing just... _this_ with me,” Iwaizumi groans, laying down on the couch in his apartment. His and Tooru’s apartment—both their names are on the lease. They’re _married_. His husband is home in their apartment.

“Shh, rest, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa murmurs, smile teasing and eye winking as he places the ice pack...well, on Iwaizumi’s groin. “Rest your groin.” 

“Say _groin_ again, I dare you,” he threatens half-heartedly. 

“Groin, groin-groin-groin, groin,” he sings to the tune of Thong Song.

“Hhhhh, c’mere, you.” Iwaizumi pulls him down to the couch and he submits. “Seriously. I’m sorry. It’ll be completely fine in like, maybe three days, though, and then we can go do more fun things. I know we were talking about going hiking or something. Or clubbing. Or whatever it was we planned that I’ve ruined.” 

“Don’t worry about it. This is funny. And I’m exhausted anyways.” He yawns for effect, flopping down next to him. “I forget how far away Argentina is until I’m stuck in an airport for a day and a half.” 

“I’m glad you got here safe.” Iwaizumi brings their foreheads to touch together. “I missed the hell out of you.” 

“Don’t even talk to me about that, you can’t have possibly felt the heartache I did—” 

Iwaizumi interrupts his faux bitching by planting his lips against his, forcing a small _eep_ out until they resume their natural, endlessly familiar rhythm. They kiss, quiet and neat from there on out, and rest there, looking up at the ceiling with their hands clasped together. 

“Our apartment looks nice,” Oikawa hums. “Suga-chan and Dai-chan did a good job.” 

“They did, didn’t they?” Iwaizumi snorts, imagining using the word _Dai-chan_ in a sentence. The two of them really _did_ do a good job making the space feel lived-in, and Iwaizumi relayed the whole process to Oikawa over videochat to make sure he was decorating it the way _he_ wanted, too. It was nice to have a project to work on to occupy himself, and it was nice to have company around when Iwaizumi was especially missing his husband or his bunkmate. “You can meet them if you want. They come over for dinner sometimes. I think you’d like Sugawara a lot.” 

“That’d be fun. Meeting Iwa-chan’s work friends, hm, you think that’s a step in the right direction for our relationship?” 

Iwaizumi plays along, smirking. “I mean, I don’t know, but I think the two of you have something going.” 

Oikawa’s acting skills break for a second as the corners of his lips flicker. “Mm, I think so too.” 

Iwaizumi smiles when one of Oikawa’s hands climbs up to rest on his neck. “Yeah, maybe even enough to get married.” 

“Maybe.” Oikawa finally breaks the act, raising Iwaizumi’s hand to twist the wedding band on his finger. “Maybe even enough to raise kids with him one day.” 

Iwaizumi freezes. “...What?” 

Oikawa looks up at him. “I was serious that time.” 

“Yeah, I gathered that, but where’s it coming from?” Iwaizumi shifts slightly to face him directly, ignoring how the ice pack falls off his thigh without a cravat.

“I...y’know, when I’m sitting alone at the house and I’m with Kiki—” 

She meows loudly at the mention of her name and ambles over to the couch from where she had been exploring the cat tree Iwaizumi had bought her months ago, though she seemed most satisfied with the lone cardboard Ikea box that still sat in the corner of the living room. She seems happy, at least, and that’s a good omen for the apartment. 

“Good girl.” Oikawa scratches her head and continues, “I—sometimes think about how maybe we could do more than Kiki. Y’know. One day. When I get lonely or sad or whatever in San Juan, I think about how we could do that. If we wanted to.” 

Iwaizumi just cocks his head at him. He had no idea Oikawa had interest in kids _actually_ . They talked about it, sure, but Oikawa was always _joking_. Correct?

Additionally, it was simultaneously sad but very cute to think that Oikawa would get upset and have domestic fantasies about the two of them. 

Oikawa continues, seeming a little more defensive when he says, “We _did_ talk about it. You never seemed to have any objections, so—”

Iwaizumi sputters, setting aside his mild hatred of kids to address his husband’s needs. “I mean, are you talking about, like, ten years from now? Oikawa, we live on different hemispheres, how would we possibly raise a kid? Kiki took five hours of coaxing to remember who I was. Imagine how bad a kid would be.” 

“I know, I just…” Oikawa sighs. Clearly, he hadn’t thought it out _that_ much. He’d just idealized it. “One day, I’m going to have to retire. It’ll definitely be my knee, my trainer already said so.” 

“Tooru—wait, when did you learn this?” Iwaizumi feels himself getting defensive, protective. _No_. Things are supposed to be fine for him. Iwaizumi’s sacrificing the majority of their marriage so that Oikawa can have a long, successful, fulfilling career. 

“Oh, it’s old news. A long time ago. You were in Africa, I didn’t want to burden you any more than you already were. Besides, I’m supposed to make it to twenty-seven at least, so that means I’ll get to go to the Olympics next time.” He says that last part with a shaky smile. “That wasn’t the point, though. The point was that I’m going to come home to you at some point, and the direction that would come with having a kid just...seems nice, from where I am.” 

“Twenty-seven…” Iwaizumi gulps. The implications of all that… “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Tooru. God, I wish you had told me sooner. I thought _I_ was the secret-keeper in our relationship.” 

He laughs, though none of what Iwaizumi said was supposed to be funny. “I said I’m over it. We all knew this was coming,” Oikawa says, clearly _not_ over it, but at least he has a relatively realistic viewpoint about it. He smiles, smaller, but it seems more genuine. “Don’t be sad, Iwa-chan. I’m happy to see you care, but I don’t want you getting upset over this right now.”

“I...okay, if you say so,” he murmurs. 

“Back to the topic at hand. I’m getting the impression you _don’t_ want kids.” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“I inferred.” 

“I just...don’t love kids, I guess. I had gotten comfortable with the idea of you being in Argentina and us just...doing _this_ .” _This_ meaning long-distance shit that they were used to but both hated. “I didn’t think kids would ever be a part of that equation. Didn’t think that far.” 

“I see.” Oikawa thunks his head against Iwaizumi’s chest, looking thoroughly deflated. 

“I-I’m not opposed to it, necessarily!” Iwaizumi clarifies quickly, petting Oikawa’s hair down. “It would...require a lot of planning. And thought. And prayer, probably.” 

His eyes peek up to hold a gaze with Iwaizumi. “But you’d consider it?” 

“Yeah.” Iwaizumi puts his arms around him and scoots him a little closer. “Yeah. I’d consider it.” 

Oikawa lets out this long, stuttering sigh, like he’s been holding it for the whole eight months they’d been physically away from one another. “Okay.” 

“Okay then,” Iwaizumi hums, trying to soothe him from whatever emotional rollercoaster he was on. He goes on to pet his hair a little while longer, running his fingers through strands and massaging his scalp just where he likes it. He makes a sound halfway between a whimper and a moan, almost orgasmic. 

“Woah there,” Iwaizumi chuckles. “You like that?” 

“I’ve been thinking about this for _months_. I missed being intimate.” He sinks down further into Iwaizumi. “You always know just where to put your fingers.”

“I can’t tell if this is intentional foreplay or if you just really like scalp massages.” 

“Whatever you like, lovely.” 

“Okay, now you’re just fucking with me.” 

“Maybe,” he laughs weakly, clinging tighter to him, his tone changing. “I was so worried about you, Hajime, really. You’ve been through the ringer while we were apart. I’ll never forgive myself for not being there during... _everything._ You starting off a new job, fixing up our apartment, figuring out the Reserves, and everything with Sato especially. I was so afraid you’d...you’d—” 

“Shh, shh,” Iwaizumi hushes before he can finish that thought. “I forgive you. You’ve always been forgiven. And I would never, Tooru, I promise you that.” 

“You mean it?” 

“Absolutely. Vow-level seriousness.” 

He ducks his head against Iwaizumi’s chest again, like he’s dissolving and surrounding himself around Iwaizumi as much as he can. Iwaizumi gets the feeling. He’ll have time to do the same as well. 

“Tooru,” he starts. 

He’s suddenly struck with how this _exact_ conversation went with Sato— _what are you doing now that you’ve fucked up your leg and you can’t keep doing the same work you were doing?_

“Hmm?”

No pretense, Sato had said. _No pretense._

“You know what you’re gonna do after volleyball?” 

“Well.” Oikawa pouts his lips, thinking. “Other than being a dad—don’t freak out, it’s just a consideration, I know—probably something I can do with my Spanish. Maybe I can teach or something, or get some sort of translating job. I’m not a native speaker but I’ve got a fair amount of knowledge built up.” 

Iwaizumi feels his eyes widen. That...yeah. That fit. And he had given thought to what he would do, which meant he wasn’t _too_ depressed about his knee. “That sounds really great for you, Tooru.” 

“Pfft. How could I ever _not_ be great?”

“Shush,” Iwaizumi groans. “Fuck. Anyway. You wanna go do something? There’s this dive bar down the street the guys and I like to go to. There’s a good chance Sugawara and Sawamura will be there.” 

Oikawa doesn’t say anything for a couple beats for comedic effect, then hums. “I thought your groin hurt too bad to do anything.” 

Iwaizumi isn’t sure whether he should laugh or cry out of embarrassment. 

“Don’t worry, Iwa-chan. Don’t worry, I can make it better before we go anywhere,” he purrs. 

And Iwaizumi submits to what Oikawa—and he, too, let’s not lie—has wanted to do for months. 

* * *

They manage to have a little fun without hurting Iwaizumi further, which is a miracle in and of itself, but both he and Oikawa have gotten better at communicating each other’s needs as they’ve gotten older. And then, they got drunk at Terushima’s, and Oikawa somehow managed to completely charm both Sawamura and Sugawara—not surprising—but also lost in a drinking contest with Sugawara—surprising, which made him lose 2,000 yen in the process. 

It is _so good_ to have his husband back. And he’s back for a whole two months, which is also miraculous. Apparently his trainer encouraged him to do it, saying his knee needed periods of rest, but that wasn’t to say Oikawa didn’t stop playing while they were in Sendai together—Sawamura was letting them use the volleyball net they had set up in the lot behind the station, and when the night set in, too cold to keep playing, they’d go to the rec center Iwaizumi likes to go to. He would hit Oikawa’s sets for a little while, then move on to swim some laps in the indoor pool, keeping his form Navy-perfect. Oikawa couldn’t swim for shit, but once he successfully beat himself up slapping his serves down, he’d come and sit by the water, watching Iwaizumi do the things that brought him rhythm and stability. Plus splashing him. That happened, mostly. 

Their routines don’t always mesh like they might have in high school. Iwaizumi gets up really early for work and has to be gone for twelve hours, though Oikawa is allowed to hang out at the station if things aren’t crazy. In turn, Oikawa spends a lot of time on work meetings on his computer, fixing the logistical kinks before his Olympic debut in just three short years. There was a lot to sort out—more than Iwaizumi could imagine—but, per usual, Oikawa handled everything in stride. 

Kiki got fatter while living in Sendai, mostly because Iwaizumi spoiled the ever-living fuck out of her with treats and maybe the occasional table scrap. Yes, that was bad and it taught her to get up on the kitchen table. No, Iwaizumi didn’t care. 

And the thought of one day having a child to spoil—his and Oikawa’s child—always seems way far away, but not outside the realm of possibility anymore. In the galaxy of Oikawa and Iwaizumi, the possibility of _Child_ sat on the outer edge, so far away from the black hole of chaos in the center of their marriage, mysterious and ready to explore with thorough preparation. 

Though Iwaizumi still didn’t want it. He’d never tell Oikawa that, he didn’t want to ruin his fantasy until it really came down to the wire. But he’d never be able to handle one. 

* * *

_Sato,_

_Here I am, four years and six months exactly after your death, with a husband that owns an Olympic gold medal. He won’t shut the fuck up about it even though it was last July, but honestly, I’m still psyched over it, too. You’d think with the two of us as full-grown adults—twenty-seven years old, I’m catching up to you, bastard—that we’d be more chill about it, but we aren’t. I only just now came back from a month holiday in San Juan, where I got to see each one of his games in person. It was a hell of a lot better than watching the livestreams. It sucks to have to alternate spending time in different countries with him, but what can you do, y’know?_

_Tanabe won that fishing tournament with your boat last month, too, though I’m sure you watched. He caught a MASSIVE bluefin. It was incredible to see. He loves that rinky-dink piece of shit._

_And the station is great, per usual. There’s a good chance I’ll get my paramedic certification by the time the year’s out. Captain Daichi—yeah, we use first names now, it’s fine—has been breathing down my neck about it, because “he wants more paramedics” (wants me to head up the night shift, since he needs a paramedic to do it and his faith in Bokuto, the current night-shift paramedic, wears thin). It’ll get done, but I need to go to school, which...ugh. But I know you’d be encouraging me to do it._

_And about this kid thing. Remember how I was telling you that Oikawa was thinking about retiring after the Olympics and then never did? Well, the notion of kids came up again. I really just don’t know. He’s eager to do it, and as I’ve gotten older, I guess I’ve gotten more comfortable with the idea too. I know you always wanted a kid, so it feels disrespectful for me to just dismiss it, but I genuinely have no idea how we could ever balance his career with kids. He seemed fine to admit that he’d come home to do it, but I know when that bridge actually comes for us to cross, he’ll be devastated. Coming home is like admitting defeat, I think, and no one accuses this of him, but his knee is going to blow out if he keeps going like this and it’ll be hard. He really should quit while he’s ahead._

_Maybe a kid would be good if he were suddenly empty without volleyball. Maybe he’s right. But that seems like when people with shitty marriages have kids to save their relationship, and that feels like admitting defeat to me, too._

_Not to mention that my shifts are unpredictable. And I feel like I’d be a horrible dad. And I’m not sure how easily we’d be able to adopt, considering Oikawa is a foreigner and, well, we’re gay. It’s hard. While Oikawa can have fantasies about this without too much questioning, I keep taking this really cynical viewpoint over the whole thing because I feel like someone has to. But maybe I’m my own stumbling block._

_Anyway, enough about me. I’ll put a copy of the picture the Beekhofs sent me of Andreis in here—check out his cute little backpack! He’s a preschooler, which means he’s more educated than you and I ever have been. I sent him a Christmas present and everything last month. It’s weird to think it’s been that long since the mission, much less that the family actually survived the assault. That kid will never really know what you did for him._

_More on you: I’m so glad your family lets me come to your matsuri. Really glad. Even when so much time passes, it’s nice to be able to go visit your grave and do all the shit I’m supposed to do. These letters gotta go somewhere, right?_

_Hope it’s sunny._

_Your bunkmate,_

_Iwaizumi_

Iwaizumi taps out the final touches on the letter—he had started typing them on his phone once he got more involved in work and needed to add things to them on the fly. It was like a journal; it was therapeutic to talk to Sato. He’d print it out when he got home and then put it in the envelope to drop at his grave when he went to visit next. 

He’s pocketing his phone and settling back into the passenger side of the ambulance cab when the dispatch radio bleeps. _“Aoba Ward dispatching BLS 01, ALS 01, respond. BLS. 4 Chome−10−10. Conscious infant female, abnormal breathing. Caretaker reports harsh cough, low-grade fever, and difficulty rousing. 1402 hours, over_.”

The Captain picks up the radio, raising a brow at Iwaizumi in the passenger seat and turning around to make eye contact at Kuroo in the cabin, who was only now waking from a catnap on the stretcher as they waited for calls. “ALS 01 acknowledging the call at 4 Chome-10-10, over.” 

_“O.K., 01. 1403 hours, over.”_

“Alright, I know you love peds so much, so I’ll let you take point here.” He clips the radio back in the socket and smirks at Iwaizumi sarcastically, pulling the navigation system up and putting the truck in gear. The lights and sirens start up—this is an airway problem, most likely, and thus it warrants the theatrics and thrill of the red flashing and the whooping cries. 

“Great,” Iwaizumi chuckles and sighs. Man, was he tired. He had no idea where this call was leading them and infants could be _so_ unpredictable. 

“Deadeye with the baby skills!” Kuroo hoots over the siren, then winces at the combined volume. “Put some music on, goddamn, I hate that noise.” 

Iwaizumi turns on the radio when Daichi gives a nod of approval, ignoring the Deadeye mention. The nickname didn’t bother him so much anymore—it had been clarified to include the fact that _nothing_ got past Iwaizumi, ever, not a _single detail_ in a case, in addition to him being an excellent marksman. _Deadeye_ was a compliment and always had been, and after four years of hearing it over and over, it had become a part of himself. 

A part of him died when he killed the pirate, sure. The hole where that part was expanded when Sato died. And nothing could fill that hole—it was a hole that nothing his counselor ever could fill, nothing Oikawa ever could fill, nothing work or decorating apartments or lotto tickets ever could fill. But something was growing—something _good_. Something strong, something like an iron anchor with a gleaming, impenetrable chain that could withstand the strongest of storms and that wouldn’t let his boat rock—wouldn’t let him be thrown overboard. 

Kuroo’s horrible singing, Daichi’s closeted interior decorator lifestyle, Sugawara’s gambling addiction, Bokuto’s lack of grocery store navigational skills, Hinata’s relentless optimism to the point of naivety, Yachi’s caution and inability to kill spiders, Kageyama’s stubborn loyalty, Ukai’s blaze-orange Litmann that smelled like cigs. Oikawa’s pride—his worst and best feature. These things and more Iwaizumi came to cherish and celebrate, even if not outwardly, because he knew how quickly they could be ripped away from him. 

Especially Sugawara. God, it fucking _hurt_ when he got into his accident, and it proved Iwaizumi’s point. Sugawara is so much _like_ Oikawa—not the Oikawa other people know, but the Oikawa that he let Iwaizumi see—and Iwaizumi finds himself projecting his love and protection for Oikawa onto Sugawara all the time. It was unhealthy, he knew, but it was a symptom of them being long-distance. 

Kuroo sings blissfully off-key to the radio in the back, some poppy tune that Iwaizumi recognized but didn’t know the lyrics to. He’s reorganizing all the stuff from their last call, ready to do it all again. 

“Wait, is this the orphanage we’re going to?” Daichi asks as the ticker for the arrival time flickers. 

Iwaizumi googles the address quickly. “Yeah. Date Orphanage?”

“Shit, is that the place I’m thinking of? With Moniwa?” Kuroo pauses from singing as he sticks his head in the cab, holding onto the back of Iwaizumi’s headrest to keep from falling in the moving vehicle. 

“Yeah.” Daichi winces and glances at Iwaizumi. “This is a place that I did a call on several years ago, when I was still a rookie. They’re severely understaffed and...the kids eat, of course, and they’re clothed and educated and happy, but there’s just a lot of them. It’s sad. Suga and I volunteer there sometimes, but neither of us have been since his accident. I’m a little worried.” 

“I don’t think any of my rookie calls were as bad as that one,” Kuroo hums, uncharacteristically solemn. “I’m still sorry I couldn’t be there to help.” 

“What, was it a code?” Iwaizumi asks. 

Kuroo and Daichi both nod grimly. 

“SIDS. It’s part of the job to see that, because who else do you call, but still. No wonder why they’re being cautious with this call, if they couldn’t rouse the baby,” Daichi murmurs. “Poor Moniwa. He lets those kids walk right over him. Koganegawa, Futakuchi, and Aone are a little more steadfast, but this might be a difficult call in terms of cooperation.” 

Iwaizumi sinks back into his seat and feels dread climb up his throat—they might be unwilling to comply fully with them or be too clingy or do all sorts of things that make their job harder. 

Daichi says something before Iwaizumi has to. “It’ll work out fine. Just don’t make promises you can’t keep.” 

They all nod, a weird mood falling over them until they arrive. It’s a stout brick building in the late afternoon sun, with bare trees in the backyard looking eerie and cold, but the light from inside the building and the chalk drawings on the sidewalk make it seem more warm and pleasant. 

Daichi barks out a quick acknowledgement of arrival to Dispatch and they head inside, pushing the stretcher and hauling jumpbags as they go. 

“Oh, thank God!” A shorter man with curly black hair (who looks vaguely like Bokuto’s current beau, Iwaizumi thinks absentmindedly) comes out of the steel side doors. “Daichi-san, you have to help, one of our new babies...she—I laid her down for a nap and then she wouldn’t wake up—and she can’t breathe right—” He’s choking up, hands shaking as he lingers by the door. He’s in shock. 

“Moniwa-san, it’s good that you called. We’ll do the best that we can.” Daichi placates coolly and expertly. “These are my partners, Iwaizumi and Kuroo.” 

They bow reflexively towards Moniwa, who dismisses them immediately. “Please, please, you have to help her.” 

He pushes the heavy steel door open, revealing a warm, thinly-carpeted front room with a little gas fireplace and couches that look well-loved. Iwaizumi could see a few hallways leading away, where small eyes and heads of hair peeked around doorframes, all trained on a figure sitting on the couch. 

He’s a _big_ man, holding a baby who looked comparatively tiny in his arms. The baby is crying, though not nearly as loudly as she should be and noticeably hoarsely, and Iwaizumi can immediately hear her whistling stridor breath in the periods where she doesn’t cry. An upper airway occlusion. 

“Shh,” the big man rumbles and rocks her gently. The grating cries dissipate for a second, but come back right after. 

She holds a small plush fish in her hands—sparkly green and blue, not unlike the mahi-mahi Iwaizumi and Sato used to catch in the Gulf. 

“Izumi-chan!” Moniwa cries out, coming to sit by the big man and taking the baby in his arms. 

_Oh my God._

Iwaizumi looks at her—really looks at her. She’s got tannish skin and wispy black hair, just like. Well. Just like the only other Izumi he’s ever known. Her teensy grip on the fish tightens when Iwaizumi makes eye contact with her. 

“How old is Izumi-chan?” Daichi asks, even though Iwaizumi should be taking point. He’s stuck to his spot, boots somehow sticking on the carpet. “Does she have a history of respiratory illness?” 

“She’s six months old today,” the big man says, voice deep and reverberating enough to calm Izumi’s cries. His eyes track her protectively, though Moniwa’s got her thoroughly tucked in his arms. 

Six months—six months old, that makes her—she was born four years exactly after Sato’s death, which means it was the fifth Shinto anniversary, which meant...which meant...

_No fucking way._

She looks like she’s in pain, her tiny features all twisted and tears and snot running down her tiny cheeks. 

Iwaizumi _hurts._

“She’s been sickly since she came here—she was premature and her biological parents didn’t care for her well—but she’s been fighting some sort of cold for the past...I’m not sure, two or three days. She hadn’t been running a fever until this morning, though, and the weird breath noises started thirty minutes ago,” Moniwa murmurs, stroking her hair and adjusting the purple striped onesie she keeps bunching up as she squirms. 

“Has she had all her vaccinations? Specifically Hib?” Daichi probes. He’s trying to figure out whether this is epiglottitis or croup. 

“No. No, she’s—she’s up to date, but her six-month appointment is next week, so she hasn’t had that shot yet,” Moniwa looks more and more desperate by the minute, fretting over Izumi, who looks equally uncomfortable. 

Daichi nods. “That’s okay. Has she been having difficulty swallowing?” 

“She was able to have her formula this morning, but she’s refused her solids for the last couple days.” 

“Okay. Okay, so long as she was able to swallow her formula.” Daichi thumbs his chin, thinking briefly. 

“Two hundred yen says it’s croup,” Kuroo mumbles for the three medics to hear. Iwaizumi nods; he’s inclined to agree at this point. She wouldn’t have been able to swallow if it were epiglottitis, and she wouldn’t be crying so much, either. Crying is actually a great sign for infants—it means their airway is functioning—and an absence of cries would indicate real blockage of airflow, which means deoxygenation, which means, well, exactly what you’d think it means. 

“Okay, Moniwa-san, could you sit her up on her lap? It may help her breathing, especially while we examine her,” Daichi instructs, helping Moniwa sit her up. Her head bobs and lists, looking a little confused at her current surroundings and the unfamiliar men all around her. “The breathing noises she’s making indicate something’s blocking her upper airway, which may just be the airway swollen from an infection. We’ll need to auscultate, but there’s a high chance she has—” 

She coughs on cue, tonal and rough, like a dog barking. 

“Croup. Yeah, that’s a croup cough,” Daichi finishes his thought. “Iwaizumi, go ahead and auscultate.” 

He finds the traction in his boots when Daichi directly orders him over, taking his stethoscope from around his shoulder and kneeling in front of the couch, just above eye level with the baby. Izumi. That’s her name. He rubs the diaphragm of it on his hands to warm it up and holds the back of the baby very gently with his palm.

Her eyes flash, looking at Iwaizumi as if she’s running through a database in her head of faces she recognizes. Her crying doesn’t increase at the touch of a stranger, though, which is odd—six-month-old babies should be afraid of strangers. The main directive in prehospital care for babies with croup is to avoid agitation, but it seems like she’s not really all that agitated by Iwaizumi’s presence. 

He ducks his head and places the diaphragm on her chest to listen when she takes a break from crying, then looks up and pops the nubs off. “Definitely stridor. Elevated breath rate.” Izumi’s deep brown eyes, almost black and fully dilated, track Iwaizumi as he examines her a little further. The muscles between her ribs contract sharply while she breathes—Iwaizumi palates them gently, trying to be more soothing than anything else. “Suprasternal and sternal retractions, too.” 

“Okay, yeah, she needs to go. We’ll queue up a pulse ox and humidified oh-two, um...ten liters, and blow-by if that doesn’t work,” Daichi decides. “Moniwa-san, it’d be best if you kept holding her—” 

“Moniwa-san?” 

“Aone-san?” 

“What’s wrong with Izumi-chan?” 

“Why are there flashing lights outside?” 

“Is the baby okay?” 

“Oh, no…” 

The kids who had been creeping around the doorway have been making their way out, naturally curious at the situation. There’s about eight of them, which makes Iwaizumi wonder about the other kids they might have and who’s watching them right now. Aone jumps up and pushes them back wordlessly, but it’s clear that they aren’t particularly cooperative; they push around him. One of the little girls has started to cry in tandem with Izumi. 

“Daichi-san, I don’t think I can leave, I don’t—” Moniwa chokes up again. “I’ll be to the hospital as fast as I can, but it’s only me and Aone here today. I can’t leave the other kids alone unless I get more help.” 

“Okay. That’s okay, Moniwa-san, we’ll take good care of her, yeah?” The Captain smiles reassuringly, though this is less than optimal. 

“You have to. Please,” he begs, looking right into Iwaizumi’s eyes as he had been listening a little more thoroughly to Izumi’s lungs. He’s closer. Or maybe Moniwa could tell he’s attaching to her. “Promise me you’ll help her.” 

“I promise,” Iwaizumi says without any hesitation. 

He can feel Daichi and Kuroo getting uneasy behind him for promising something, drilling looks into the back of his head, but that _is_ a promise he can keep. 

He’s not going to fuck up with _this_ Izumi. 

Daichi raises his brow. “Alright then. Lock and load.” 

It takes a little logistical effort to get her into the cabin of the ambulance—Moniwa keeps her in his arms until the last second, but she drops her fish on two separate occasions, causing her to cry harder on two separate occasions, which only agitates her airway further. Leaving her in the ambulance is even harder, mostly because Moniwa is teary and poor little Izumi can tell. 

“Bye, Izumi-chan. Be good, okay? Bye-bye,” he murmurs, setting her on the upright stretcher and backing off. She cries, coughs, cries some more from the pain of coughing, and reaches out with her stubby arms towards her caretaker. 

Daichi placates Moniwa some more—thank God he took point on the morale front, Iwaizumi hates doing that—and manages to shut the cabin doors without too much extra heartache. 

“Well. Okay,” Daichi sighs. “Let’s take care of a baby.” 

There’s a lot of slow soothing and _shhh, shhh_ that happens while Iwaizumi organizes the leads on her chest, cuff on her thigh, and pulse oximeter on her foot. The monitors all bleep to life within the cabin. “Heart rate 156, BP 86/53, RR 51, pulse ox 94.” 

“Yeah, start an NRB with the humidifier unit on, ten liters.” 

Kuroo lifts Izumi in his arms for just a moment to adjust the straps on the stretcher, maneuvering the oxygen tubing around her. She immediately bursts into tears and kicks, making her face red and probably causing a lot of undue pain. 

“Woah, shit, okay. That’s it, I’m out,” Kuroo hisses. He places the baby in Iwaizumi’s arms and scrambles to the cab, deciding he’ll drive.

Iwaizumi and Daichi look at each other, sharing the same _well, what the hell should we do now_ feeling, and it takes a second to realize that Izumi isn’t crying at all in Iwaizumi’s hold. She’s quieted to her stridor breathing and rests her back on Iwaizumi’s arm, as if they’ve done this before. The thrum of the diesel engine might help, too; Kuroo’s being especially careful with his driving skills. But mostly, Iwaizumi finds that she’s responding well to _him_. 

“I think she likes you,” Daichi murmurs. “Here.” 

He helps Iwaizumi fit the NRB oxygen mask over her face, which makes her features screw up into a grimace as she adjusts to the airflow suddenly against her lips. 

“Good girl,” Iwaizumi murmurs, shifting her onto his lap to sit upright and give her a little support. Her breathing evens out slightly and her whimpering recedes, soothed while Iwaizumi strokes her heaving, tired ribs. 

“Her pulse ox is climbing. Good job,” Daichi congratulates. “Kuroo, step on it, there’s not anything more we can do.” 

“Baby daddy Deadeye!” He hoots very quietly but very enthusiastically from the cab. The engine rumbles as he gives it more gas, and he hears Kuroo slamming the gearshift around. 

Izumi looks up at Iwaizumi, features frowning and eyes wide. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Hm? I know you can’t tell me, but…” 

She babbles something incoherent from underneath the mask, then coughs sharply, and the pitiful look returns. 

“You don’t feel well at all, huh?” 

As if to confirm this, the grip she had on the fish loosens again. It drops to the steel floor and Iwaizumi picks it up, squeezing the soft material and placing it one more time in her hands. But she seems dissatisfied with it now, glancing at it only half-heartedly. 

“She’s a little febrile, she probably feels gross,” Daichi hums, standing up and guiding himself along the wall to turn on the tiny sink and wet some gauze pads. He wrings them out and passes them to Iwaizumi. “Try this.” 

Iwaizumi dabs her sweaty hairline, cheeks, and neck with it, until her respiratory rate slows from 51 to 36. Her pulse and blood pressure lower in accordance.

“That better?” Iwaizumi asks her. “Maybe? A little?” 

Of course, she doesn’t confirm anything. Babies are the worst patients for that reason. But the way her eyelids blink slowly and her crying is gone lets him know she’s at least slightly more comfortable. The fish lays snugly against her chest. 

“Shitty to spend your half birthday sick with us, huh?” He chuckles and thumbs her teeny-tiny shoulder. “Happy birthday, though. Izumi-chan.” 

Another babble escapes her lips at the sound of her name, though it sounds a little more contented now. 

“Happy birthday, Izumi-chan,” Daichi repeats the congratulation, then looks over everything and pats his thighs with satisfaction. “I’m gonna call Suga and see if he can help watch the kids at Date for a little while, just so Moniwa can make it out to the hospital. Don’t let her fall asleep.” 

“10-4.” 

He pulls his phone out. “Koushi? Hey, what’re you doing right now?”

Iwaizumi focuses on Izumi, being sure to pat her every once and a while to keep her awake and rub her back when she coughs gratingly. 

“Is there any way you could go to Date and help out for a little while? We’re coming back from a call there and Moniwa was so stressed out, he was nearly in tears. They need some extra eyes so that he can leave and meet us at the hospital.” 

Iwaizumi takes the fish from her chest, waving it in tiny circles in front of her face and humming. She tracks it and makes a noise that sounds almost like a giggle when Iwaizumi tickles it against her arm. 

“Oh my God, you’re the best. Yes. Yeah, I’ll say it again, you’re the best. Yeah, I’ll buy you a lotto ticket. Yeah, I’ll pick the numbers. Thank you, babe. How was your day?”

Iwaizumi snorts and whispers to Izumi, “They’re silly, huh?” 

She makes that gurgling giggle sound again, lips flaring into an unmistakable smile. 

_Good Lord, she’s cute_. 

“Yeah. Yeah, good girl.” Iwaizumi rubs her back and ribs some more, since he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Maybe he’s doing too good of a job of it, because her head lolls slightly as her eyes blink shut, like Kunimi on the bus rides home from games. 

“Wait, no, don’t do that,” he backtracks, catching her head. “Don’t do that. I know you’re tired, but don’t nap here. Nap later.” 

He brings the wet gauze back from where he had pulled it off her neck and rubs her face a little more, stimulating her to stay awake. She must pick up on his anxiety, because her bottom lip begins to tremble. 

“Oh, no, don’t cry, that’ll just make your throat hurt,” Iwaizumi explains as if she could understand. He smiles, hoping she’ll pick up on it and smile, too. “Want your fish again?” 

But she seems indifferent to the fish now, only mildly watching when Iwaizumi holds it in her reach. She’s worn out that toy. 

“Okay then, we can try something else. Um...” Iwaizumi looks around for anything she could play with. Daichi shrugs when his gaze lands on him, looking equally at a loss. 

Iwaizumi sighs and squeezes her tiny hand from where she had latched onto two of his fingers. He looks around some more—cath tubing, maybe? It was sterile, she could chew on it. But anything that’ll catch the light—

His tags jingle as he moves his neck. His _tags_. 

He pulls them off his neck, holding them at the base and teasing them right in front of Izumi’s face. Her deep brown eyes widen at the sight of them, glinting in the fluorescent light, and she reaches out with a grabby hand, clenching and unclenching and demanding to touch the pretty little shiny object. 

Iwaizumi submits, letting her grip the first tag she gets ahold of—the one that says _SATO IZUMI, JAPAN MSDF._

Iwaizumi smiles at her innocent playing. This is _exactly_ the kind of thing Sato would have loved, the kind of thing that he would have thought was ironic or poetic or spit in the face of rank or was just plain dumb. “Good girl. Good girl, Izumi-chan. You like those?” 

Daichi must have put the pieces together, because he starts to hang up. “Alright, Sugs, I’m gonna let you go, okay? No, I won’t work overtime tonight. I promise. Six PM sharp and I’ll meet up with you. Yeah. Yeah, love you too.”

He lowers the phone and puts a steady hand on Iwaizumi’s shoulder as the baby in his lap bearing his dead buddy’s name plays with his dead buddy’s tag. He doesn’t need to say anything. There was nothing _to_ say. 

* * *

  
  


Daichi and Kuroo end up having to leave on an ALS call just as soon as they could pull into the ER bay, leaving Iwaizumi to fulfill his promise and watch over Izumi. He stays by her the whole time while Takeda-sensei comes in to examine and diagnose her—moderate severity croup, easily fixed with a short round of nebulized epi, a corticosteroid, and simple ibuprofen. 

Iwaizumi eventually totes her to the EMS lounge to get her out of the chaos of the busy ER floor, and also just to have her to himself. Since her airway’s less swollen and she’s feeling a little better, she’s surprisingly vocal—only babbling, but she squeals for attention if Iwaizumi looks away from her for just a second. Lev and Yaku even come off the nurse rotation to play with her and help Iwaizumi bottle feed her and eventually, tired out by all the happenings of the day and satiated with her formula, she falls asleep on Iwaizumi’s chest. She fucking _falls asleep on him_ , like they’d known each other beforehand or something. He wants to cry. He maybe does cry. Sue him. Yaku takes a bunch of pictures that would undoubtedly find their way to Kuroo at some point, and then he knows he’s all in.

But, as they say about all good things, it isn’t too long before Moniwa comes to pick her up and take her home to the orphanage, ending their bonding session. 

“Thank you _so_ much, Iwaizumi-san. I don’t know how I can repay you,” he says, bowing repeatedly. 

“It’s really okay, no thanks necessary,” Iwaizumi says, lifting her a little higher on his hip. “She was a really good girl. Weren’t you?” 

Izumi gurgles as Iwaizumi strokes her sparse hair down, black and curling just slightly on the edges. She has her fish in one hand and Iwaizumi’s tags in the other and holds them like they’re her life’s only possessions.

He looks at her—really looks at her, at her searching eyes that seem like they’ve seen so much already, wise beyond her years, and at her easy, toothless smile as she glances between Iwaizumi and Moniwa, then at the toys in her clutches, then back again. 

Iwaizumi gulps and asks a question he knows will lead him down the motherfucking rabbithole. “Does she have any families lined up for her?” 

* * *

_Sato,_

_So, right after I wrote that note, you’re never gonna fucking believe who my next patient was._

_Who am I kidding, you definitely did that on purpose. First, an obligatory FUCK YOU, because it startled me on duty. Two kids with your name on them? I know you would have liked that, but damn, leave some for the rest of us. Not to mention she’s literally exactly like you, regardless of how I’m projecting you onto her. She had a little fish and everything. God. That’s on-the-nose, even for you. Born on your death anniversary? Isn’t that vaguely...inauspicious or something? On-the-fucking-nose._

_Thank you._

_Your bunkmate,_

_Iwaizumi_

* * *

_Tooru,_

**_I_ ** _n my habit of_ **_w_ ** _riting letters to you_ **_a_ ** _fter really importa_ **_nt_ ** _things h_ **_a_ ** _ppen—life-changing things—and then me never sending them to you and_ **_k_ ** _eeping them for later, let me tell you about who_ **_I_ ** _just saw on my shift and who I’m_ **_d_ ** _efinitely insisting on seeing again_ **_._ **

_You’re gonna get a real kick out of this. She’s...well._ **_Fuck it_ ** _. I’m just going to call you and rant to you about how hyped I am, and then I’m going to start volunteering at this orphanage so I can see her more. She doesn’t even have any families applying to adopt her._ **_It’s as if it’s fate_ ** _._

_On the back of this, I wrote all the little details I noticed about her that I keep obsessing over. Never burn this letter, please._

_I can feel the change in the air, Tooru, I really can. It’s palpable._

**_Miss you. Love you._ **

_Forever yours with interruptions (but maybe soon without interruptions? Maybe?),_

_Hajime_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > For the sky and the sea and the sea and the sky  
> Lay like a load on my weary eye  
> And the dead were at my feet  
> [...]  
> An orphan’s curse would drag to hell  
> A spirit from on high  
> But oh! more terrible than that  
> Is the curse in a dead man’s eye
> 
> \- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_
> 
> and! so! let's talk about the future of this au! this is now the most "present" in this au's timeline compared to all the other fics. as you probably already gathered, i am setting y'all up for an adoption fic soon. but that probably will not be the next work in this series—i need time to work that fic out. i know i said the next installment would be the tsukki & yamaguchi intern fic, but it turns out it isn't. the next fic will probably be this entirely-plotless fluff daisuga thing? i might be able to inject some plot in it but so far we're coming up short in the plot department. think of it as an...expository interlude? (i say, as if all of my fics are anything more than expository interludes)
> 
> wait, you thought we were done? without a fun fact section? no way!  
>  _fun facts:_  
>  \- the "deadeye" nickname absolutely sticks, especially because iwa's really good at darts at terushima's. suga bets on him every time and never loses.  
> \- aone likes baking, and though he's often the buffer to control misbehaving kids, he'll turn around and give away baked goods. protect aone and his baked goods.  
> \- sato's (—>iwa's—>tanabe's) boat is way nicer than iwa makes it out to be, actually, and though iwa would never admit it, he goes up to use that boat way more frequently than he said he would  
> \- andreis sato-hajime beekhof has a small obsession with argentinian men's volleyball that none of his fellow preschoolers understand. good for him.  
> \- never wrestle a mahi-mahi, especially not drunk. the author is not endorsing this activity. 
> 
> thank you for reading this work, and i love you very, very, very, very much. i hope you'll stick around for more installments! take care of yourselves. <3


End file.
